


i don't wanna feel regret, just imagine

by SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Consensual Underage Sex, Daddy Kink, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, M/M, Mirror Universe, Multiple Universes Colliding, Multiverse, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Parallel Universes, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sexual Tension, Threesome - M/M/M, Two Peter Parkers, Universe Hopping Shenanigans, double the trouble, there will be smut, two tony starks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16547255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut
Summary: Here's how it goes:1. Peter wakes up on Titan.2. He is thoroughly and inexplicably kissed by a frantic Tony Stark who, before Thanos, had simply been Peter's mentor-slash-father figure.3. Things just kind of go downhill from there.---Or: In the process of coming back to life post-Thanos, Peter seems to have gotten just a teeny bit lost. Sure, this alternate universe has a Tony Stark. That's helpful. The catch, though? This Tony Stark has been in a relationship with his mentee, Peter Parker, for the last two years.





	1. It Begins with a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up on Titan. He quickly realizes that things aren't exactly the way he left them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hello! So, this fic was actually the first ever Starker thing I posted, and it is still ongoing :) It spent forever lingering in my drafts folder and kept getting deleted because I kept putting it off, but I eventually sucked it up and posted it before AO3 wiped it *again*. 
> 
> This fic is both my baby and the bane of my existence, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (As a sidenote, this fic has been fully plotted _way_ before Endgame premiered. The ending has already been set. So, this will proceed independently of the events of Endgame and Endgame's plot holds no sway over what happens over here in this lil universe <3)
> 
> (The title of this story is lyrics from _Romantics_ by the magical Tove Lo)
> 
> (The wonderful moodboard is created by Feyrelay)

_Fourteen million, six hundred and five outcomes._

Funnily enough, that -- in Doctor Strange's deep timbre -- is the first thing Peter's brain chooses to recall when he's hauled into the arms of a desperate Tony Stark and thoroughly kissed in the dusky, orange heat of Titan.

 _Oh wow,_ he thinks, dazed by the sudden turn of events. He wavers on his feet, and Stark's hold is the only thing which keeps him upright.  _Where the hell did I end up?_

At the end of the day, Peter is a sci-fi geek and science nerd with a deep working understanding of physics. The existence of multiverses is hardly an outlandish concept to him. All the weird shit he's seen throughout his amateur superhero-ing career just further cements the concept.

It only makes sense that there are other worlds extremely similar to theirs, worlds that are fighting the same threats and working to reverse the same apocalyptic actions of a mad Titan.

So, this Tony Stark that's kissing Peter with such heartwrenching desperation? As much as Peter could wish otherwise, as much as he loves his mentor in ways he could never give voice to, this isn't -- cannot be --  _his_ Tony Stark.

Peter's in the top of his class at Midtown Tech. He's hopelessly infatuated, not _stupid._

There were more than fourteen million divergences from just that one single point in time Strange had accessed. If that's the case, then how many more divergences and alternate realities could there have been in total? How many more universes with different variations of Peter Parker and Tony Stark?

If that number is even a fraction of what Peter imagines, then how hard would it be to find a near-identical world? One where the only difference is that Tony Stark feels for his Peter Parker in a way Peter’s only ever known through dreams?

Not that difficult, apparently.

What _is_ difficult, however, is resisting Stark’s lips when they’re moving against Peter's like _that_. It doesn’t matter which Tony Stark he’s dealing with, a kiss is still a kiss, and it’s no surprise that the Tony Stark of a different universe is just as _skillful_ as Peter imagined. And _man_ , can this Stark kiss, even without any contribution from Peter.

It’s almost a good thing that Stark's embrace is so vice-like and unrelenting that Peter has no choice but to wrap both his legs around the man and submit to his death-grip, because with the way Stark's lips are devouring his? Peter’s too weak-kneed to stand in any capacity.

It’s so much. _Too much._ The sting of mechanic’s fingers weaving into Peter’s hair, the roughness of his beard chafing against Peter’s skin, the heat of his arm that’s looped low on Peter’s waist, the distinct scent of Tony that apparently transcends universes… Peter’s had countless dreams about being loved by Tony Stark, and this blows them all out of the water.

He’s on fire.

And if Peter’s honest, he... _kind of kisses back_. He lets it continue half a minute longer than he should, sighs softly and lets his own lips part ever-so-slightly, just so he can know how Tony Stark’s tongue feels when it brushes up against his own. It’s not like this will ever happen for him again.

It’s his only chance to know.

Besides, Peter’s recently died and come back to life, so he allows himself this one celebratory indulgence -- and _what_ an indulgence it is.

At the end of the day, though, his good conscience wins. Peter steels himself and draws back just enough that his lips break apart from Stark’s. “Uh, Mr. Stark?” he says, trying to ignore how husky his voice sounds. “I’m not...I’m not...”

God, what does one even say in a situation like this?

“Sweetheart,” Stark murmurs, “it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

And _oh God,_ Peter is instantaneously and hopelessly hard, just from those few words of endearment.

Stark dips back in with parted lips and hooded eyes like a starving, drunk man, and Peter wants so badly to fall forward and lick into the billionaire's mouth, to let himself be ravished.

But, this isn’t _his_ Tony.

 _This_ man, enticing and familiar as he is, is not the man Peter’s worshipped his entire life, nor the actual man that Peter had gotten to know over the course of these past few years. He’s not the man who learned Peter’s darkest secrets and wholeheartedly accepted them, nor the man who brought Peter and Ned to the Last Jedi premiere, nor the man who spent hours upon hours working with Peter in the lab for no other reason than that Peter likes science and enjoys working on projects.

No, this Tony Stark is a completely different man from a completely different universe, who has his own Peter Parker that he loves so very dearly if the look in his eyes is indicative of anything.

With those thoughts in his mind, Peter manages to resist and dodge Stark’s searching lips. “Mr. Stark, I’m not your Peter,” he blurts, and that, thankfully, stops the man in his tracks.

“Not my--” Stark pulls back in bewilderment and finally gets a good, long, searching look at Peter’s face. He likely finds something distinctively different as his gaze charts out every detail of Peter’s visage, because his face pales and his arms slacken. Peter -- with nothing holding him up beside his shaky legs that are still wrapped around the man’s waist -- goes falling backward like a dead weight.

At the last moment, Peter instinctually releases his legs so he doesn’t drag Stark down with him; he lands hard on his back like an overturned turtle while a stricken Stark stands stock-still above him.

“Uh, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, trying his hardest to keep his voice from shaking.

It’s a lot to process. One moment, he’s coming back to life, and then he’s being kissed within an inch of his life by a mirror image of the man he loves, and then he’s being dropped like a sack of potatoes because he’s not the right Peter Parker for this Tony Stark.

His body aches, his head throbs, and his heart hurts.

Actually, his heart feels like it’s being squeezed until it’s a second away from bursting. Because this? He wants this, _so damn much_. Why can’t he be this Peter? Why can’t this Tony be his? Why can’t his own Tony love him like this?

“Oh God,” Stark breathes. “Oh my God. What the _fuck_ is going on?” He looks down at Peter, and his face twists in an ugly mixture of anger and confusion that makes Peter feel sick. Never in Peter's life, even when he's fucked up to ridiculous extents like at Staten Island Ferry, has he imagined that Tony Stark could ever regard him with such a hateful expression. “Who the fuck are you, then, and what the fuck do you want?"

When Peter fails to immediately answer, Stark pounces forward into the most uncomfortable straddle and fists the collar of Peter’s suit. “Answer me, you son of a bitch,” he snarls, giving Peter a rough shake that bounces the back of his head off the dirt several times.

Peter could say that the force of impacts are painful, but they're not -- not really. Not when compared to the look of pure loathing on the man's face, or the inherent _wrongness_ of the concept that some version of Tony Stark is laying hands on Peter. No, those hurt worse, by far.

“Where’s Peter? My Peter?” Stark asks, and he shakes Peter even harder -- so hard that Peter feels a lump rise in his throat and dejected tears sting at his eyes.

“Stark,” someone tries to interrupt.

“Shut the fuck up!” Stark barks. He drags Peter’s head a few inches off the ground so that they’re nose-to-nose again, except this closeness is distinctively _not awesome._ Not like before. “Where is Peter?” Stark asks -- slowly, menacingly, and then his voice cracks horribly at the end. “Tell me,” Stark grits out, and after a long pause, he swallows and hisses, “Fucking tell me, right _now_.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter finally manages to stutter. “I’m sorry.” Against his will, he begins to cry. Once he starts, he can’t stop, and he finds himself sobbing in earnest under the wrong Tony Stark -- one who has no comfort to offer him. It’s utterly humiliating. “Mr. Stark,” he weeps, “I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on. I _am_ Peter, you have to believe me.”

“Prove it,” Stark snarls, looking like he’s seconds away from straight-up choking the life out of Peter. “Fucking prove it.”

Peter knows, immediately, the one thing that is likely to count as sufficient proof, and he hates that he has nothing else to offer. Peter's an open book about most things, which is now biting him in the ass. He hates that he has to bring this up -- that he has to take something so sensitive, so private to him and Mr. Stark alone, and then _exploit it_. All just to fucking prove that he's himself.

_It's not fair._

_It's his only option._

“ _Skip_ ,” Peter gasps out, wretchedly. "Skip Westcott."

Stark goes rigid above him.

The ghost of Peter's childhood nightmare swoops down and sucks the air away for the most horrid of suspended moments. 

There’s a long, terrible silence that follows, interrupted only by Peter’s crestfallen sobs and the deafening loudness of how Stark is noticeably _not_ breathing.

Peter closes his eyes and wishes, hard, that he’ll open them and find himself back in his own world.

They remain closed for a long time. Long enough that he hears Stark start breathing again -- deep, shuddering, pained breaths, the sound of someone trying desperately to hold himself in one piece.

“Kid,” Peter finally hears, whispered in a strangled voice, and he opens his eyes to the conflicted visage of the wrong Tony Stark. For a moment, he swears he catches something flashing across man’s eyes, something full of tenderness and love. It’s gone, though, before Peter can properly identify it, let alone savor it, and then the warm weight of a body over him vanishes as Stark pushes himself up, takes a deep, quivering breath, and walks away without a single backward glance.

And then Peter is alone.

He bawls, lying flat on his back and bringing his hands up so he can press the heels against his eyes. “Wake up. Please, wake up.” He tries slapping himself once, twice; hot, sharp stinging erupts along the side of his face, vividly real. Regrettably real.

He doesn’t wake.

This can’t be happening. This has to be a nightmare of some sort. He can’t be trapped on this planet with strangers who look like his friends and family -- strangers who bring up feelings of affection and familiarity in him that will just go unfulfilled.

Fuck the kiss, fuck the good fortune of this universe’s Peter Parker; Peter wants his own Tony Stark. He wants his own May and his own Ned.

He wants to crawl into May’s arms and breathe in the scent of her soap and perfume.

He wants to listen to Ned’s rambling words that have long become an essential element of his day-to-day life.

He wants to see Mr. Stark on Titan and bask in his mentor’s presence, in that sense of comforting reassurance his person seems to radiate for Peter. And if all Peter gets for his return is a clap on the shoulder, he won't even feel disappointed. He’ll be good; he won't dare to be discontent, ever again.

He just wants to go _home_.

“Peter,” the deep baritone of Dr. Stephen Strange says then, and it’s not comforting in the way Peter wants, nor does it aid the smallest bit in helping Peter swallow down the tears that _just won’t stop coming_. His entire chest aches fiercely, and he can’t breathe. “Peter,” Dr. Strange tries again, and an uncontrollable whine escapes Peter’s throat. He shuts his eyes and shakes his head.

“Hey, dude, stop.” A different voice breaks through his thoughts, and suddenly, strong and warm hands are helping him sit up. It’s enough movement and physical contact to help Peter see through his fog of misery. “You’re stressing him out, cut down the intensity.”

It’s Quill -- the other Peter, the one who likes _Footloose_ and is weird and kind of cocky, but has a certain warmth to him -- and he smiles at Peter in this kind of freaked out, sympathetic manner that makes it a little easier to breathe.

“Hey, buddy,” Quill tries, “Peter. It’s okay, just let it out. I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

_I’ve got you, you’re okay._

It’s nearly identical to the arousing words Stark had hissed in his ear not minutes ago, but has a completely different effect.

Listening to Quill’s soothing tone is like uncorking the drain on a full bathtub. Slowly, Peter manages to reign in the sobs as Quill gently rubs his back, up and down, up and down. When Peter takes his first deep breath that doesn’t get interrupted by a sob, Quill makes this light little noise of victory that Peter can’t help but smile at. “There you go,” Quill says, patting Peter on the shoulder. “That’s a little better, right?”

Peter Quill is quickly becoming Peter’s favorite person in this shitty universe -- not that the bar was set especially high. But still, he likes this Quill, and he appreciates the kindness so much. "Thank you, Mr. Star-Lord,” Peter says, wiping away the remaining tears on his face. “I do feel better. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. And _Star-Lord_? Just _Peter_ is fine. Or _Quill_ , if that’s easier for you right now. Or... _right!_ ” Quill snaps his fingers. “ _Big Pete_ and _Little Pete_! Does that help?”

“That’s perfect,” Peter murmurs, grateful and hungry to accept every ounce of comfort possible. “Big Pete. Little Pete. I like that.”

His eyes flutter as warm fingers stroke at his hair, and a hand guides his head to rest against the firm, flat expanse of Quill’s chest. “I don’t know what to do,” Peter whispers against the soft leather of Quill’s jacket.

“Are you…” Quill asks hesitantly, “Are you from a different dimension or something?”

Thank god for Peter Quill. Even as he asks, his hands never stop gently carding through Peter’s hair. It’s probably the only thing keeping him relatively sane at this moment, a single physical anchor.

It also hits Peter, though, that besides some heated kissing followed by a freakout and embarrassing tears, he hasn’t really given anyone a clue as to what’s going on. They’re probably all wondering, and Peter has little choice but to face this situation.

Otherwise, it won’t get solved. And that’s simply unacceptable.

Peter clears his throat and summons every ounce of composure left in his body. “I fought on Titan with Mr. Stark and I, well.” _Died_. “But I wasn’t... _with_ Mr. Stark.” _Even if I’ve always wanted him._ “We’re close, but not like, uh, _this_. So I think I somehow fell into the wrong universe.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dr. Strange contributes, voice minutely softer compared to how it previously sounded. The barest tendrils of magic are disappearing from his fingers -- clearly, he had taken a minute or two to investigate the situation while Peter was otherwise occupied.

“There are countless universes,” Strange explains, “and in many, the Avengers don’t reverse Thanos’ actions. In some, Thanos isn’t even a threat. But those few worlds where Thanos gained the Infinity Stones and the Avengers were successful in reversing his misdeeds occur on different timelines and at their own pacing. Some instances, it takes mere months. Other times, _years_. Either way, these differences ensure that when the dead are returned, they can easily find their way back to their rightful place.” A regretful look crosses his sharp features, then, and he looks directly at Peter. “Unfortunately, that was not the case here.”

“So,” Peter says, lifting his head from Quill’s chest as his brain works in full gear. “You mean that at the same exact time my world’s Avengers reversed what Thanos did...”

“It just so happened that we did the exact same,” Strange finishes with a nod. “Two mass exoduses, two enormous groups of people coming back into existence at the same time. In the process, you and the other Peter Parker were misplaced. It remains to be determined why this has happened to the two of you, specifically. _Only_ the two of you, it seems.”

 _Well, that certainly explains it in the vaguest of ways. But…_ “How do we figure it out and fix this?” Peter asks, and _ugh_ , he cringes at the desperation that leaks into his voice, the way it raises in pitch by octaves. “I need to go back - I have people I love and I need to go back to them. As much as this is…” _kind of everything I’ve fantasized about._ He quickly shuts his mouth before he reveals more.

Strange quirks an eyebrow and Quill murmurs something that sounds a lot like _‘Oh, man,'_ but aside from that, everyone graciously glosses over his slip. Strange says, “I have some theories, but it will take time,” and Peter’s heart falls.

“But,” Peter says, even though he knows anything he says is useless. He’s in the wrong place, and all the _if’s_ and _but’s_ in the world won’t change it.

It doesn’t matter if the thought of a different Peter Parker -- one with no compunction about kissing his mentor -- being anywhere near Peter’s own Tony Stark fills him with a defensive, burning jealousy.

It doesn’t matter that Peter dreads the possibility that his own Tony will learn from a doppelganger how Peter looks when he’s desperate in that type of way, or how Peter’s lips feel against his.

It doesn’t matter that if the fates were so generous that Tony was going to find out, his own Peter should be the one to show him, not some _impostor_.

The only thing that will fix everything is action and resilience and -- Peter _really_ hopes -- the aid of this universe’s heroes.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and then louder, with more conviction, “Alright. We’ll work on those theories, then. If...you're willing?”

Strange looks at him with something that borders on approval. “That we will,” he agrees. “You can rest assured I will not rest until this is resolved.”

 _Thank god,_ Peter thinks. He doesn’t know what he would have done if Strange had refused to help. “I -- Thank you, Doctor,” Peter says as Quill guides him to his feet. Knowing that he has at least two people on his side is an enormous relief. He manages to stay standing on shaky legs, though Quill’s arm around his waist makes the job easy.

With his feet back under him, Peter finally surveys his surroundings and notices their lack of an audience. Stark is nowhere to be found. Neither are Quill’s friends. It’s just the three of them left.

Catching Peter’s confused look, Strange says, “Everyone else has already boarded the Guardians’ ship. As the process of regeneration has depleted my energy somewhat, we’re flying back to Earth instead of opening a portal.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He had been hoping to get his feet back on Earth as soon as he can, but if Strange is tired, there's little they can do. Peter’s not going to complain, especially when the man has so generously agreed to help him with his situation not even five minutes ago. “T-that’s fine. I suppose we should get going, huh?”

Strange levels him with a look that says he’s not fooling anyone. “I may not be able to open a portal,” the wizard says, “But I have more than enough magic to put you to sleep for the duration of the trip.”

Peter swallows, feeling a flood of relief. “That would actually be great, Doctor. That - I’d really appreciate that. Could you?”

“Of course.”

Together, they get settled in the ship, and Peter allows himself to be led straight to a private bedroom where Quill lays out a soft shirt for him -- one big enough that it hangs to mid-thigh. “Leather pants aren't comfortable to sleep in, and I don't usually wear clothes to bed, so..." The man shrugs apologetically. "This should cover you, though. And if you need anything, that--” he points out an intercom-like button on the wall, “will call someone to you. But otherwise, there’s facilities through that door if you want to clean up, and this bed is all yours. Take it easy and get some sleep, okay?”

Peter nods his thanks, then gets dressed and crawls under the covers of the plush bed.

The day finally gets to him, then, as he wraps himself in softness and goes limp. Everything slows down, and all he wants is to drift into unconsciousness, far beyond the reaches of any thought or worry. He wants to be aware of nothing. Distantly, though, he catches the sounds of muted knocking at the door.

"Come in." He peeks out from under the protection of the comforter as the door slips open.

It's Strange.

For all that the doctor was pushy earlier, he's silent and gentle now, sitting on the bed by Peter's head and running practiced hands through Peter's hair. It's authoritatively soothing in a way only a doctor's touch could be, and Peter closes his eyes with a soft sigh.

"I'm going to place a simple sleeping spell on you, followed by a spell to ward off any dreams. You will wake naturally once we are on Earth. Is this okay?"

"Yes, please, thank you," Peter murmurs, bracing himself for whatever magic is coming his way. However weird it would feel, _worth it._

But the discomfort doesn't come. There's a melodic murmuring of a spell in Strange's deep baritone and the hypnotizing carding of fingers through his hair.

Peter's eyes slip closed, and the world mercifully fades to tranquil darkness.

\---

Strange doesn’t linger once Earth is back under their feet.

“I need to investigate some things of a magical nature,” he explains to Peter, “and consult some of my peers. At this stage, I’m afraid your intelligence -- as impressive as it is -- will be of little help. What I’m investigating goes beyond scientific understanding.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says earnestly. He takes a deep breath and forces the bravest smile he can muster. “I understand, Doctor. Don’t worry. Do what you need to do.”

Strange looks at him with softer eyes, and nods in approval. “Good kid,” he murmurs, and it’s impossible not to preen a little at the compliment when it’s delivered in such a smooth tone by someone with the innate authority Strange seems to radiate. “Stark has my contact if you need it, and I’ll be in touch.” With a few twists of the hand, Strange opens a portal for himself. “Take care, Peter,” Strange says, and then he steps through, portal shutting cleanly behind his heel.

_And then there were three._

Peter looks at Quill first, trying his best to ignore the burning presence of Stark behind him. Quill meets his gaze and offers a small smile. “I wish I could stay, Pete,” Quill says, truly apologetic, “But there’s a few things I have to take care of first.”

“And after?” Peter asks, hating how needy he sounds.

“A week, max,” Quill assures him. “We just need to run a few tasks, and I’ll come straight back. It's time I revisit this planet, anyways. It's been decades.”

“Okay,” Peter breathes, nodding a few times to calm himself.

“Hug goodbye?” Quill asks, opening his arms, albeit a bit stiffly. Peter doesn’t hesitate before stumbling forward and falling into Quill’s embrace. His arms are strong, and his body is solid. Sure, he hugs like he'd had very little practice in physical affection, but any hug is still a hug. The simplest and most accurate way to describe the feel of the man is _safe_.

 _I can do this,_ Peter thinks as he breathes in the space pirate’s scent. _Just one week, and then I’ll have this again._

He tells that to himself over and over as he watches the _Benatar_ disappear into the atmosphere.

Then, steeling himself, Peter turns to face the cutting figure of Tony Stark. “Okay,” he says, meeting the billionaire’s unreadable gaze. Some (read: most) of Peter's bravado is absolutely false, but he figures this is a _'fake it till you make it'_ type of situation. “What now?”

“Follow me,” Stark says shortly, as he turns and walks further into the compound.

With few options available to him and nothing else to do, Peter follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come (har har). Any comments will be wildly appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Xx
> 
> \---
> 
> I am also [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Swing by and say hi! 💖💕


	2. Not So Settled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets settled into the compound. Stark manages to unsettle him with a few ambiguous words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter. Yeet.
> 
> Turns out, updating a WIP doesn't make me any less anxious about posting! I guess it's just one of those things, if y'all anxious peeps know what I mean. But this is, like, the thrilling kind of anxiety, so we're good!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The other Peter Parker's interests aren’t all that much different from his own, Peter quickly gathers.

Most of his realization is based on the outrageous aggregation of sci-fi paraphernalia scattered all over the place. Literally, there's stuff  _everywhere_. There’s _so much of it._ It’s like an episode of _Hoarders_ or _My Strange Addiction,_ only it’s _awesome._

On every available surface and wall space, there are trinkets of all shapes and sizes, vintage collector’s items, Funko Pops, _autographed and framed movie posters._

Peter spots a _The Last Jedi_ poster that appears to be autographed by the fucking cast. He swoons, up until he looks at the dresser underneath the poster and propped against the wall is a framed photo of himself, Stark, and what appears to be a third of the movie cast at a premiere.

He stops breathing for all of ten seconds.

There is absolutely _no way_ Peter could have managed to collect half of the items he sees. He’s just incapable, both financially and based on his lack of clout. In fact, looking around, he spots at least six items that were on his wishlist of unattainability, and several he hadn’t even dared imagine.  

Damn, his counterpart is lucky. And spoiled rotten.

The cherry on top of that, though? The entire set of king-sized bedding is _Star Wars_ -themed, from a printed comforter, to blueprint sheets, to an enormous plushy of the Death Star. There's an obscene number of pillows encased in different printed cases; he spies a giant square one that’s covered in little porgs.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Peter breathes.

“Yeah,” Stark says, watching with an inscrutable expression as Peter stands in the middle of the room and takes it all in.

There _might_ be a hint of amusement in his dark eyes, which is... _good_? If Stark is amused, it’s frankly better than angry, or annoyed, or irritated… or _ready to slam Peter back to the ground and shake him around some more_.

That hadn’t been much fun. Peter's not looking for a repeat performance anytime soon. 

Peter has to look away from the intensity of the man’s stare. As he focuses hard at another poster on the adjacent wall -- a vintage _Star Trek_ poster -- he hears Stark sigh softly, and then say, “There’s a lot of stuff, but it’s clean. Housekeeping -- the roombas and robots, essentially -- come in here twice a week. Or Peter sometimes comes in here and cleans around. Other than that, though, he doesn’t really sleep in here all that much.”

Peter blushes at the implications.

Stark clears his throat and looks around at all the traces of his Peter that remain. “Still,” he adds, crossing his arms. “It’s his zone. His nerdy version of a mancave.”

It’s easy to tell. Even if it’s not used often, the space is well-loved and filled to the brim with trinkets and elements that give it life. “It’s lovely,” Peter says, voice quiet. It really is lovely. And looking around, he realizes that even if he’s never met his counterpart, this chaotic mess of a room feels more like home than any other place Peter’s seen so far.

 _This must be hard for Stark to watch,_ he thinks, turning back towards the man. “It’s a beautiful room,” he offers, shifting from foot to foot. “Lots of cool stuff. I--” he waves his hand in a gesture at everything in the room, “I like a lot of this stuff, too, you know?”

He's not quite comfortable enough to ask the man what he's really wondering: What _am I doing in here?_ Why _did you bring me here?_

“Good,” Stark says, “It’s yours.”

“Uh.” Peter blinks. “What?”  

Stark shrugs. “Peter is kind of... ridiculously nice. He’d be more than okay with you using his room and his things. In fact, he’d want you to have this.” For a moment, fondness creeps into his voice, before he frowns and averts his gaze.

Apparently, Peter’s not the only one struggling with the intensity of their situation. He’s not the only one having difficulty looking certain people in the eye.

That's simultaneously comforting and unsettling. Comforting, because he's not alone in his feelings. Unsettling, because the other person sharing this shitty boat with Peter is this doppelganger of his mentor.

And Peter's not quite sure by what terms they're choosing to abide. It's all very confusing.

“Look,” Stark says, voice firm, “I know this isn’t easy for you at all.” He sounds weary as hell. Peter feels a sudden, sharp pang of sympathy for the man. “This -- making you as comfortable as possible in the interim -- it’s the least I can do. It’s what Peter would want, and what he would expect. So, just take it, okay?”

Peter thinks about the other him, also trapped in a different world. He imagines his counterpart living in his room. Sleeping in his bed. Using his things.

And he's fine with it.

Well, _theoretically_.

Because Peter never accepted Mr. Stark’s offer, he also never received official quarters. But _if_ he had his own quarters, he wouldn’t mind the slightest bit.

In fact, he might actually _prefer_ it. The immediate lodging alternative which pops uninvited into Peter’s mind -- Mr. Stark’s bed -- is not so pleasant to think about. He’d rather his counterpart _not_ defile his mentor, _thankyouverymuch._

So, Peter exhales and says, “Okay.” He’s awed at the kindness of the gesture, but altogether not surprised that the other Peter would be cool with this. He knows himself, after all. And like Strange had said, they’re quite similar -- both in personality and life experience. By extension, he has a basic understanding of his counterpart. “Thank you, then. If there’s anything I can do for you…?”

A pained look crosses Stark’s face. “Just one thing?” he asks.

“Sure,” Peter immediately says, “Anything.”

“This other Tony Stark -- your Tony Stark.”

 _I wish,_ Peter thinks, but he doesn’t dare, nor does he have the heart to correct those words. “Yeah?” he asks. It comes out a little too breathless for his liking.

“He a good guy?”

“The best,” Peter blurts out before he can even think it over. “He’s brilliant, and so incredibly good, and he’s secretly a softy inside.”

“Then my Peter…?” Stark asks with no little apprehension.

“Is in the best hands,” Peter finishes without an ounce of doubt. Whatever the situation may be, the Tony Stark he knows wouldn’t hesitate to help anyone in need, let alone any version of Peter Parker. “Even back when we weren’t close, Mr. Stark has always felt responsible for me. He’s always taken care of me. There’s no way he would ever let your Peter be anything less than okay.”

Stark looks _so_ relieved.

Seeing that, Peter's heart aches in longing and homesickness.

Stark's reaction makes Peter wonder: Back in his own world, is Mr. Stark worried about Peter? Is he missing Peter half as much as Peter’s missing him?  

“Besides,” Peter adds, as a distraction to himself because these thoughts will either drive him crazy or to tears if he allows them to continue. “Mr. Stark forgets to eat all the time and sucks at the basic necessities of life, but your Peter will be fine, because Rhodey and Vision are probably around to make sure everyone eats. Honestly, Mr. Stark is probably only still alive because he has people like Rhodey who keep him watered and fed.”

Thing is, he usually has Peter, too.

It’s the strangest thing, but they’ve developed a bit of a communication dependency. Even when they don’t see each other on a regular basis, Mr. Stark had picked up the habit of texting Peter multiple times a day, checking in to see that he’s eaten, that he’s going to bed at a decent hour, that his homework is done. That he's mentally doing alright.

And Peter’s gotten in the habit of checking back, as well.

Somewhere along the line, they’ve started holding each other accountable in all aspects of life. It's a great partnership.

There’s _something_ in Stark’s eyes that makes Peter’s hackles rise. It takes him a minute to place it, but when he finally does, his heart skips in anxiety.

It’s the look of a scientist who has caught whiff of something interesting and isn’t going to let it go unstudied.

If there’s one thing Peter knows from years of working with the man, it’s that once Tony Stark’s intrigue has been piqued, he _will_ extract whatever information he pleases, Nothing holds up against his curiosity and determination -- not even the firewalls of the most secretive agencies in the world.

And Peter’s… not exactly the best at keeping secrets in the first place. More like, he’s close to one of the worst liars out of everyone he knows. Under the right pressure, he cracks like an eggshell.

Essentially, he’s screwed.  

Case in point: Stark says, in a careful tone that sounds like some sort of test -- “I’m not worried about Peter’s self-care skills. In fact, I’m quite sure my Peter will take great care of both him _and_ the other Stark if necessary.”

 _He better not,_ Peter nearly snaps, looking up with indignation. _He better keep his webby fingers to himself._

It’s a near miss; Peter barely manages to bite the words back.  

Stark smiles -- this little, wry, self-satisfied type smile -- and _right,_ that’s what the test was.  

And Peter had failed it in _seconds_.  

“Does he know?” Stark asks. “Does he know that you’re in love with him?”

_In love with him._

Not ‘ _crushing on him’_ or ‘ _in lust with him’_ like they all probably gathered from Peter’s words on Titan, but full-on _love_.

And Stark’s… _not wrong_.

Peter’s never had the guts to voice it to himself, but he can’t deny the accuracy of someone else’s words.

He’s in love with Mr. Stark. Not the idol who he’s fantasized about, nor the billionaire-superhero who’s graced the cover of magazines, but his mentor -- the eccentric, intelligent, fast-talking, incredibly flawed madman who’s somehow taken a personal investment in Peter’s life.

All those other things (the clout, the money, the swank, and the looks _, God, the looks_ ) were just attractive facets that, sure, Peter will admit fueled his infatuations. But the love hadn’t come until he had seen Mr. Stark at three in the morning, all gross and sweaty in torn jeans and a tank top, with a triumphant smile on his face because he'd finalized an arc-reactor-based reverse osmosis device that could solve the issue of limited drinking water for many countries.

There was really no point in trying to deny or hide anything when it comes to Tony Stark. Especially not from Tony Stark himself. Besides, if this all goes right, it won’t even matter that Peter had told Stark his deepest darkest secrets, because he’ll be back in his own universe with a Tony Stark who, thankfully, won’t know how gone for him Peter is.

“Of course not,” Peter says, looking straight at Stark. _There’s nothing to be ashamed of,_ he reminds himself. Not when Stark has, by the transitive property, fucked Peter and seen him at his most vulnerable. Whatever he admits now has no comparison, and it’s actually a bit of a relief to know that. “I could never tell him. That would ruin everything.”

He doesn’t elaborate on how in his mind, anything is better than nothing.

He’d rather be Mr. Stark’s prized protégé \-- standing alone and untouched on a pedestal -- than be nothing at all. He’d rather yearn silently for eternity than see their relationship become strained should the billionaire learn of Peter's emotional compromise.

Really, Peter’s always been prepared to swallow down his feelings, to lock them deep in a vault and never let them see the light of day. He’s accepted that fate already. He’s fine with it, as long as he gets to keep Mr. Stark in his life.

This Stark, though, raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Would it?” he asks.

“Uh, yes?” Peter says. _What kind of a question is that?_ “Was that supposed to be rhetorical?”

“Yes,” Stark answers. “And because it’s rhetorical, I hope you take some time to ponder it as you should with all decent rhetorical questions.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Peter says. He tries, hard, to keep his sudden frustration from bleeding into his tone. He’s not entirely successful, causing Stark to raise an eyebrow at Peter’s ill-masked bitterness.

But really though, who does Stark think he is? Just because he’s merrily fucking his own protegee doesn’t mean he knows the first thing about Peter’s life. Just because _they_ got their perfect fairytale love affair doesn’t mean everyone else is so lucky.

 _Most_ people aren’t that lucky. _Peter’s_ not that lucky.

“Sorry,” Stark says, “just ignore little old me, then.” He doesn’t sound apologetic at all, which is frankly irritating on so many levels. “I’ll get out of your hair. Make yourself at home and let FRIDAY know if you need anything. Toodles.”

For a moment, Peter thinks that’s it, and nearly sighs in relief.

But Stark pauses and turns halfway around in the doorway. “I’m in no place to chat about it now, but remind me to have this discussion before you, er, _leave_. I want to tell you how we got together -- my Peter and I, that is.” He pauses -- a loud, meaningful pause -- and then says, words pointed, “I think it’d be of interest to you.”

And then, he’s gone.

The doubt he leaves in his tracks, though, that stays.

“ _Fuck,”_ Peter hisses, feeling that doubt take ahold of him. _"Fuck."_  He throws himself back onto the bed and pulls at his hair in frustration.  

These past few years, he’s fought _so_ hard to eliminate every last trace of hope within him. There can be _nothing_ between him and Mr. Stark. That future is not meant for Peter Parker. He’d told himself that over and over and _over_ , so that it’d stick.

He had thought he was successful.

He  _had been_ successful. 

Then, all it takes is a couple of doubtful words from a different universe’s Tony Stark, and years of hard work crumble to pieces.

_Just. Like. That._

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Any comments are appreciated from the bottom of my heart! <3
> 
> Next chapter features May because May Parker (and daddy kink, but that's coming later on) is the solution to all of life's problems.
> 
> \---
> 
> Come say hi to me on [my Tumblr](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/)! 💖💕


	3. The May Parker Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank god for May Parker, in any universe.
> 
> Basically, Peter is relieved to find out that the May Parker in any universe is still a May Parker he can rely on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. This chapter doesn't have Tony Stark, but there's a lot of May-Peter family fluff, and some discussion about Tony and Peter's relationship in this universe, including a minor revelation that's a little _ouch_. First of all, this is my cheater's way of building tension and dragging this out because I suck. And secondly, I adore May Parker and I neeeeed her in this to be Peter's hype woman. 
> 
> I have a lot of feelings about May Parker so if this chapter reads differently, it's probably because I'm super emotional and constipated about how incredible of a person May Parker is. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter and are not too disappointed at the lack of Tony. I shall make it up to you in the next one!

There’s this whole deal with May, right? Like, she exists in this universe and everything.

Well, at least Peter had desperately hoped so. And to his immense relief, it turns out to be true. 

Peter’s head hurts just thinking about it. He's most definitely ecstatic and relieved that there's a May Parker in this universe -- because Peter doesn't even want to imagine existing in a world without May Parker.

But  _Christ,_ what a mess. 

She’s alive and has been waiting patiently for her nephew. Her nephew, who is decidedly _not_ the same Peter who came flying back to Earth.

And that… _sucks_.

Quite frankly, it pisses Peter off. Can’t the universe cut May Parker a break for once?

Peter feels tears prickle at his eyes as he lays on his side, on a bed that isn't his. He hugs his knees to his chest. He lets himself wallow, imagining that somewhere in a different universe, _his_ Aunt May is feeling the same as him. Maybe she's lying in the same position.

If they can't share a world, then they can at least share feelings. 

She's probably as frustrated as Peter is. Frustrated at some faceless, formless entity that's responsible for this entire fuck-up, even when there's actually no identifiable figure who's responsible. 

Frustrated at the universe, more like.    

The thing is, life has never been particularly kind to May Parker. At the very least, Peter had hoped that after having her last family member die because of some megalomaniacal alien, she would get a prompt and proper reunion with said family member.

And that’s decidedly _not_ how life proceeded.

This entire situation is shitty -- for him, for Stark, for everyone involved -- but in this one instance, Peter feels more for May Parker than anyone else. His own, of _course_ , but the one in this world, too. 

Peter wants this situation resolved for May’s sake before his own. His May is waiting for him at home, and he feels his heart break a little bit every time he thinks about her, alone, waiting for a nephew who's gotten himself stuck in yet another bad situation. Is she crying right now? Because Peter sure as hell is. Irrationally, he thinks that if he cries enough here, maybe he'll save her some tears on her end. Drain the Parker pool of sadness and hog everything for himself. 

He  _needs_ to be with her. There's nothing else to say. He  _needs_ to. As the last Parkers, they depend on each other. They're all the other has.

Peter remembers his first night away from home after Ben had died -- an aca-dec semifinal. He'd broken down sobbing and begged off, and May had obliged him. Even if she never explicitly stated it, she'd needed him as much as he'd needed her. 

He remembers how, after Ben, he'd rarely slept in his own bed for the month that followed. Despite being a teenager, he'd had no compunction about crawling into May's bed and falling asleep wrapped up in her familiar warmth. And she'd had no compunction about holding him tight -- sometimes a little too tight, as if wanting to cling to him forever. 

How's she going to get by without him, now? Especially when she has to watch everyone else get their loved ones back while her arms remain empty?

How's she going to get through that? 

Stark leaves him here to _get settled_ , but if anything, Peter is getting more and more unsettled as the seconds tick by. Not only does he have the man's weirdly ambiguous parting words echoing in his head (and what the  _fuck_ was Peter even supposed to make of that?), but he can't get the thought of May out of his head. The more he tries to think about something else, the more his mind forces his thoughts towards May.

He  _needs_ to go back to his May, yet he can't. It's this broken record of an internal mantra:  _I need. I can't. I need. I can't._

And this May? She deserves her nephew back, too. And she's not getting that, either. 

It's not fair at all.

And yet, it's what they've been served. It's the shitty hand they've been dealt.

The Parkers have been dealt a lot of shitty hands in their lives. 

Peter can only hope the other him is doing his best to console and comfort May, just like Peter is going to attempt to do over here, once he gets a chance to get off his miserable ass and go contact her.

It quickly turns out that it's not necessary. 

Around an hour into his self-pity party, there's a knock on the doorframe, and the door creaks open. "Peter?" an all-too-familiar voice asks. 

It's the sound of hope, and Peter sits up like someone's lit a fire under him. 

There are certain relationships that can transcend universes, and mercifully enough, theirs is one of them. Even if this May is not his aunt, she’s still May, they’re both Parkers, and she is kind and comfortable.

Somehow, that manages to be _enough._

That’s more than Peter can say for anyone else.

He scrambles to his feet, heart squeezing. "H...hi," he says, freezing in his steps. Should he go hug her? He's 99% sure she'd welcome a hug. And he so desperately wants one. 

He  _needs._

May Parker pauses in her steps, looks him up and down, and says “Oh, Peter,” in that gentle, motherly tone that makes every last ounce of doubt in Peter's head vanish. She opens her arms, and he falls forward into her embrace, burrowing tightly against her. She smells of soft soap and orange blossoms -- the scent he's attributed to May since childhood -- and he breathes in, deeply.

They stand there for minutes, just relishing in the feel of the other, in the scent of the other. 

" _You smell like garbage,_ " Peter recalls May saying after the ferry incident. He's glad he showered earlier because now he probably smells like clean soap and that scent May has always claimed he's smelt like since she first held him as a baby --  _skin scent,_ she had called it. 

He thinks maybe he's beginning to recognize the skin scent of May Parker, too. It washes over him like a warm bath. 

“May,” he eventually says, voice muffled by the shoulder of her shirt. “This is so weird. But I’m glad to see you.”

“Yes,” she laughs. It rings in his ears like wind chimes. Fingers gently stroke at his hair, and Peter sighs into her shoulder. “This is so weird, but I’m glad to see you, too.”

Peter had thought there would be only tears when he saw May, but there aren’t. She’s laughing slightly, and he’s giggling with just the smallest hint of blurriness to his vision. They’re united in their disbelief at the situation.

“Parker luck?” Peter asks, pulling away to look at her. “Does this count?”

May snorts, eyes filled with amusement. “Yes, definitely,” she says. “But we’ll be fine, like always. You’ve got me, and my Peter has the other May, and we’ll be fine. Parkers stick together and fight through, right?”  

“Right,” Peter says. The funny thing is, he does believe her. He'd been too discombobulated to think of it himself, but when May says it, he's reminded.

Whatever turmoil is happening right now, he still has some form of May Parker with him.

And his own May has the other Peter.

They’ll pull through this -- both mismatched pairs of Peter-and-May, because that's what they've done their entire lives. As long as they're not alone, it will be okay. 

And besides, it’s hard to despair in the face of May Parker’s constant and fierce resilience against everything life chooses to throw her way. She’s the most formidable woman Peter knows and admires dearly.

May’s brand of strength has influenced him in every way, if Peter’s honest. She’s always raised him to be, at the core, optimistic. She’s gifted him a core of gumption and the underdogged obstinacy of a Parker.

Now, she looks at him with an unidentifiable expression that, over the years, has become known as the _Parker Expression_. There’s no need to try to define it, though. There’s no need to break it down and figure out each individual piece of emotion. At the end of the day, it’s an expression of determination.

Whatever she’s feeling, Peter knows he feels absolutely the same. They’re on the same page.

“I’m glad I have you,” he says, “And I’m glad my aunt May has your nephew.”

“Me, too,” May murmurs. She smiles at him. Her eyes crinkle in that way Peter adores. Unconsciously, May reaches forward and rubs at his arms. She then holds both of his hands in hers -- a silent expression of solidarity. “We’ve got this," she says with a contagious assuredness and a gentle shake of their joined hands. "But," she adds, looking sheepish, "maybe after we get some coffee in us. I sure need a cup. Let’s get you out of this room and into the kitchen?”

“Yes, sure,” Peter agrees instantaneously.

Even if May can barely make mac and cheese, she’s always been able to make brilliant coffee. It’s a routine of theirs in the mornings, especially ones where they're not both in a rush to leave. She’ll boil a pot over the stove, and he’ll sit at the counter, and they’ll just _be._ Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don’t. It’s simply _home_. So whether for the ambiance or for the coffee itself, Peter’s not about to turn down a cup of coffee or May's company.

Watching her dance around the kitchen and brew a pan of _Cafe de Olla_ is the exact thing Peter didn’t know he needed to finally quell the worst of the anxiety brewing within him. There’s no possible way to eliminate all his situational stress, but May’s presence is enough to buff away the sharpest, most dangerous edges.  

“How did you get here?” Peter asks, watching as May carefully adds an extra dash of cinnamon to one of the mugs. That one is Peter’s mug, he guesses; apparently, his coffee preferences are universal. He takes a sip as soon as he’s handed the mug and sighs at the comforting familiarity of both the gesture and taste. “This is perfect. Thank you, May.”

“My absolute pleasure, Pete,” May says. Reflexively, she reaches up and cards her fingers through Peter’s hair. He automatically leans into it, eyes fluttering momentarily. "I guess you like that, too, then."

Peter blushes. "Uh, yes, I guess?" he confesses. She tousles his hair a few more times and he huffs on a laugh. "Keep doing that?" 

May does so, playing with his hair as she answers his previous question. “Tony sent a car for me. He called me as soon as he could and explained what was going on, and he ordered a car and had the bots freshen up my room in case I wanted to stay here for the time being.”

“He did that?” Peter asks. He sits up in alarming intrigue, jostling May's finger's out of his hair. “You have a room here? How? And he told you everything?”

He quickly realizes that he's asking way too many questions at once, but May just shrugs off his sheepishness with an amused look. 

“Of course,” she says. “To all of that. Since he’s in a serious relationship with my nephew, we’re obviously close."

"Closer than you were in the beginning?" Peter blurts out uncontrollably. "How did things develop? Did you guys start out on bad terms, too? How did you warm up to him? My May and Mr. Stark on civil terms, but they're not close. She's not his biggest fan. Uh." He pauses. "Sorry with all the questions, again." 

May gives in an indulgent look. "You wouldn't be Peter Parker if you didn't have a thousand questions for every scenario," she assures him. "Don't worry. I've had years of practice organizing my answers."

 _Aww,_ Peter thinks. His heart flutters. He grins, probably dopily. 

"So, Tony and I," May says, chuckling sardonically, "We had a rough start. I don't know what your May did, but I just about tried to punch him after finding out about Spider-Man."

Peter nods. His May, too.

"But," May continues, "I quickly figured out that if he hadn't gotten involved, then Peter would be swinging around New York in pajamas anyways. He was Spider-Man before Tony showed up, and he would have kept being Spider-Man. You're a stubborn brat sometimes, you know that? The best, but stubborn as hell."

"Yes, yes, I know," Peter says, laughing. It's very true; he wouldn't ever deny it. He's been a menace to May on many an occasion. "So then you became friends?" 

"Co-parents at first. And that didn't last long, as you can imagine. We're definitely not co-parents anymore. If anything, he’s like family now, especially after everything with Thanos. It wasn't an easy time."

Peter can imagine, and the thought makes his heart ache.

"And after Peter disappeared," May continues, "Tony and I spent a lot of time getting drunk together and mourning when he wasn't busy at work trying to reverse the incident. He worked himself into the ground trying to get Peter back, you know? The man does anything for the people he loves -- he moved mountains to make all of _this_ happen. I think I learned more about his love for you in the time you were gone, than all the time before.”

“Oh,” Peter says. It's a lot to process. Some of it is stuff he could guess, but it's different hearing it in May's voice.

It's more real.

And, it's so different from his own situation. While his own May has, for the most part, settled her differences with his mentor, she and Tony are hardly friends.

Obviously, Peter can't speak to how the situation may have changed since he died, but he doubts they’ve become... BFFs, or anything of that sort. 

Then, another thought occurs to him and he stares at May in sudden disbelief. “So, you know everything about him and Peter, then? And you’re okay with it?”

May grins in that conniving way that Peter sees once in a blue moon. The last time she smiled at him like that, she was calling him out of school to take him to a Con in Jersey. “Oh,” she says, full of smug satisfaction, “I pushed for it.”

“Uh. _What?”_ Peter can’t imagine -- literally can’t even comprehend -- a world where May wouldn’t take a bat to Mr. Stark’s Audi if she had discovered some sort of relationship between them.

“You’re not subtle,” May elaborates. “You think I didn’t know you had the world’s biggest crush on Tony Stark the whole time? Those posters since childhood. The Expo. All those books and autobiographies. The Iron Man Halloween costumes. The hero worship.”

Peter blushes, furiously. “Okay, okay, I get it,” he says, pressing his hands to his cheeks, “You don’t have to go through everything, I know exactly how embarrassing I was.” They both know there’s a _lot_ of mortifying tidbits May could contribute. “So you knew, all the time? Do you think my May knows?”

May raises an unimpressed eyebrow, as if to say, _do you even have to ask?_

“Okay, I get it,” Peter admits, “I’ve always been a fanboy. It was insane. My crush was pathetic and obvious. But how did you, like, not murder Tony Stark or vandalize his car? How are you cool with it? Wouldn’t you think he’s taking advantage of your nephew’s innocent hero-worship for indecent things or something?”

A soft look takes over May’s face. “It's simple,” she says. “Peter fell in love. It took a while to grow, and I wasn't sure of it at first, but there came a point when I had to admit that Peter had grown up. He'd gotten over the surface stuff and actually fallen in love with the man. I know my kid and I’ve been in love before, so I couldn't ignore the difference. I knew what I was seeing wasn’t just some childish crush or infatuation.”

“Oh,” Peter murmurs, suddenly plagued with questions that nobody in this universe could answer for him. Does his own May know, too? Does she also see how hopeless Peter is? Did she watch silently as Peter’s crush grew into something bigger and far more serious?    

“Realistically,” May continues. “I was preparing myself to help Peter through the inevitable heartbreak when he finally realizes he’ll never get what he wants. I'd do anything for Peter, and I was ready to support him in whatever painful way it would turn out."

Peter leans forward, clutching at his mug. "But? What happened?" 

"But then I realized that Tony felt the same way. And -- bless him -- he wasn’t doing anything about it _because_ he had all the appropriate reservations -- the same ones I had. And that made me respect him so much more as a person. It made me realize that he’s a very good man by any normal standard -- good enough for Peter, in my mind. And I only ever want what’s best for Peter, and what would make him happiest, so I decided that I was willing to have Tony Stark as my son-in-law, so to speak.”

“That’s, wow.” Peter drains is coffee and exhales in disbelief. “That’s a lot to take in,” he finally says, with a strangled laugh. “So you really think he’ll be your son-in-law someday?”

May winks. “Oh, between you and me? I’ve seen the ring.”

The heartache hits Peter hard and quick, like a tide he didn’t see coming, and he sets down his mug far harder than he should. “Oh?” he says, voice suddenly strained and he feels a lump grow in his throat. The look May shoots him, full of sympathy and understanding, only makes his eyes sting. “I’m happy for you guys,” he croaks. “Seriously, I am, even if I look like…” he makes a general gesture at his own face. “Sorry, I’m a mess.”

“Oh, Honey,” May murmurs, “You’re not a mess, you’re just in love. Come here.”

Falling into May’s arms is easy every time. So is tucking his face into the crook of her neck. Peter wonders how many times in total he'll be in this position today, or tomorrow, or for the rest of his stay.  _The limit does not exist,_ he thinks.

There's no limit on the amount of love and reassurance May can give. “Thanks,” he whispers, drawing in the solace he so desperately needs. “This sucks. I’m glad you’re here.”

This sucks for Peter himself because he gets the painful privilege of sitting here and learning that Tony Stark had purchased Peter Parker a ring in this world. 

This sucks even more for Stark, who's probably wondering when he'll ever get to propose now. Peter knows the man -- he berates himself for his choices. He's probably tearing himself down for waiting.

What a boat of pure suck. 

“Of course I'm here, Pete," May soothes, which is considerably less sucky. "I have to stay in Queens because I have work, but I'm only one call away. I'm here for you. Whether by cell or through FRIDAY. Don't hesitate to reach out, okay?" 

“Okay." It's nothing different from what Peter expected.

“Unless you really want to come live with me in Queens?”

That had been at the forefront of Peter’s mind for a while, too. He'd thought about it -- moving into May's apartment and spending his time away from the main source of his stress.

But, moving in with May would be a cowardly thing to do, especially when he _knows_ he should stay here and work through his issues. He should take the time to think through his own feelings, so that when he gets back to his world, he'll be able to focus on what's important -- reuniting with everyone he loves -- instead of being hung-up on this entire Tony Stark debacle. 

Besides, he shouldn’t leave Stark completely on his own in an empty compound, even if things are tense between them. 

Furthermore, if any action happens, it will be here. If --  _when_ \-- Strange finds something, it'll be easier to have Peter and Stark in the same place. When Quill gets back, this is where he'll go. 

So, unfortunately, Peter has more logical reasons to stay than to leave. 

“I mean," he says, "that’d be really, really nice and I’d want nothing more than to move to Queens. I'm so tempted to say yes. But I shouldn’t. You know?”

“I know,” May says, her arms tightening around him. “I knew you would say that. You’re a good person, Peter. The best.”

Her words feel eerily like absolution, and Peter pretends a few stray tears don’t dampen May’s collarbone. She, mercifully, does the same. 'So are you," he responds. "You're the best person I know. The most important person in my life."

"You're such a momma's boy, you know that?" May jokes. "Both of you." 

"Only for May Parker," Peter says. "Only for you." 

He lets the moment wash over them for a minute, and then asks, "Do you want to watch a movie?" 

“Of course,” May says. “ _Star Wars_?”

Peter smiles and holds her tighter. “Always.”  

\---

Watching May leave feels like separating from your companion in the middle of a long, lonely road trip to go your own way. 

She kisses him on the cheek and hands over her number with the express order to call anytime.

A physically penned number if of little use, considering how FRIDAY has all contact information and can place a call with a simple request, but the little slip of paper with its handwritten numbers and intimate feel is inordinately precious and Peter lays it carefully in his desk drawer for safekeeping. 

Then, he lays down and thinks some more.

He thinks, and thinks, and _thinks_.

It's monotonous, and harrowing, and lonely as fuck.

It's exactly what Peter ends up doing for the next three days. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I'd love to know what you think! <3 Tony comes back next chapter! 
> 
> Also, does anyone have a decent page count on Word for a 3K word chapter, but when you preview your stuff here, it seems like _nothing_? I have immense respect for writers who pound out those 7K+ chapters. Tell me your secrets.
> 
> \---
> 
> I am also on Tumblr [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/). Come hang with me! :)


	4. A Handful of Matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter reaches the breaking point of isolation and tracks down Stark. Their ensuing conversation isn't exactly awesome. 
> 
> Oh, and Peter also realizes to his semi-horror that he's in some serious emotional trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little bit late, because I _really_ wasn't kidding about the anxiety, and I spend way too much time combing through my writing before posting. And because life is doing to me what Tony will do to Peter at one point in this series, I actually haven't really properly revised this chapter, so I apologize in advance for any errors! 
> 
> At some point I WILL clean up this mess, but for the time being, I wanted to post something of Peter interacting with Stark. Oh, and there's sexual tension. IDK why I called this a slow-burn before because it's definitely isn't slow and I KNEW that, so I'm going to remove that tag XD
> 
> Anywhoo, I hope you enjoy!

For all that the compound had felt significantly _off_ as Peter followed Stark through it that first day -- and continues to feel so -- it’s surprisingly easy to find a sense of home in his counterpart’s room. Thank god for small mercies. As desolate as the days feel, Peter has a physical place of comfort that’s not entirely dependent on May’s presence.

The woman works too hard. The compound is a drive from the city. So even if she’s made it crystal clear that she’s always available to him, Peter can’t bring himself to contact her beyond a short phone conversation a day, and he definitely doesn’t have the heart to ask her back to the compound.

Even as much as he longs to, every minute of every day.

As expected, the room quickly becomes his safe haven in the compound that he’s hard-pressed to leave. In fact, Peter finds himself hoarding sustenance from the kitchen to minimize the number of times he has to leave. And the attached bathroom is an absolute blessing.

Now, if only it weren’t so lonely.

From the moment May leaves, the hours quickly start feeling long and empty. The minutes start to drag one moment, and then flash by the next. Peter starts to regret not taking May up on her offer to stay in Queens. Would that have been better?

He tries not to think about it, to differing success.

But, Peter reminds himself, at least he can always look forward to getting a good night’s sleep. The comforters are fluffy and decadently heavy, the pillows soft as clouds, and the mattress a perfect balance of firm and giving. Not to mention the sheets smell like himself, so it feels like his own bed from the get-go.

May aside, it’s the closest thing to _home._

He’ll take what he can get. He’s a Parker; Parkers make do with what they have, and they survive.

This is what he currently has.

A _really fucking nice room._

The room itself is huge _._ Luxurious. Far nicer than any bedroom Peter has occupied. He has his own bathroom that looks like the master bathroom off some luxe Pinterest board, with white tile and a glass shower and a deep soaker tub. It’s so excessive that it’s damn near erotic in that _rich people_ type of way.

“Oh, uh, it’s probably like the second nicest design of bedroom in this compound,” Stark explains when Peter mentions in passing just how excessively nice his living accommodations are. He’s staring resolutely at the piece of machinery in his hands, and not at Peter on the other side of the giant lab table.

So, Peter caved on the third day and tracked the man down in his lab first thing in the morning. Sue him.

It’s selfish, Peter knows, to pull something like this. Seeing Peter's face probably hurts the older man deeply, and it'd be better if Peter’s not around for Stark to make contact with.

But Peter’s just so achingly _alone_ and he’s _starving_ for someone to be around, for any kind of human interaction. It’s been _three_ _days_ since Quill left, and because he resolutely doesn’t want to burden May by asking her back to the compound, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of a person.  

Earlier that morning, Peter had woken up alone in his bed and aching more fiercely than the previous night.

There had been these lingering spirals of pleasant dreams -- dreams filled with the warmth of his own people and soft chimes of laughter, with gentle touches and soft kisses that he couldn’t quite remember. It had felt like absolute heaven.

And then, these sweet remnants of his dream had blown away into the air like tendrils of smoke as Peter had tried to cling onto them.

It had taken him fifteen minutes to stem the tears and pull his face out of his pillow.

By the time the tears dried, Peter had made his decision -- he would go and face Stark, or he would surely fade into nothing under the pressure of his misery.

So, he goes. Boldly.

When Peter approaches the lab, he _knows_ Stark can hardly turn him away without being the bad guy. So, Peter makes small talk and hates himself a little bit for relishing in the older man’s voice when he looks so haunted.

“Yeah?” Peter prompts, craving more. _God, I’m the worst._

Stark’s hand twitches tellingly around the machine part. “The nicest room is the master room,” Stark elaborates. “Mine, _obviously_. There are maybe five rooms like yours in total -- one belongs to Pepper, and another to Rhodey. I offered one to Happy but he’s currently into utilitarianism and minimalism and all that shit -- someone gave him a fucking book about it -- so as you can probably guess, it didn’t work out.”  

“Makes sense,” Peter says, “Happy doesn’t seem like the type of person to appreciate excess, anyways.”

“Definitely not,” Stark agrees. “It was already hard enough getting Pete to switch. When it came Hap’s turn, I just sort of gave up.”

“Switch?”

“Like, move from the original room at the compound? Into your current one?”

Peter blinks. “I didn’t know he had an old room before his current room.”

Stark stiffens, and then he lets out a self-deprecating huff. “Of course,” he mutters. “So, Peter and I didn’t just start banging out of nowhere. It took _months_. Some near-death experiences. Repressed feelings. All that good shit. When we finally got our shit together, he switched rooms. Before that, though, he had his original compound room -- probably the one you have back in your world -- the one next to Vision.”

Ah, that made better sense.

It’s like talking about the other Peter had loosened something in Stark, because he begins talking without prompts from Peter. “I wanted him closer to my own room because I’m a possessive bastard. And I wanted to give him something nicer, higher tier, more meaningful. We couldn’t exactly come out with everything at that point, so it was kind of a way to make up for all the secret-keeping, you know?”

“Yeah, I understand,” Peter says, because that definitely all makes sense. _Except_. “But I don’t have a room in the compound.”

 _That,_ finally, makes Stark’s look up at Peter. “Wait, what?” Stark frowns in disbelief. “How do you not have a room? Where the hell do you stay during your Avenging hours, then?”

“I’m...not an Avenger?”

“Not an Avenger,” Stark echoes.

“Nope.” Peter shakes his head. “Like, there was the whole offer and everything, and Mr. Stark showed me the Iron-Spider suit and I think he said that my quarters would be next to Vision’s, but I decided to be a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man so that all became kind of irrelevant at that point? And so if I came around to work on science or Spider-Man stuff, Mr. Stark would just set me up in a guest room -- I mean, he offered me my own room several times but I didn’t think it was necessary and he didn’t push it.”

The more he talks, the more disturbed Stark looks.

“Uh,” Peter says, beginning to regret the entire conversation, “Is that not what happened here?”

“No,” Stark says, “Here, you took the offer on the spot, became an Avenger, moved into those quarters, and started spending weekends at the compound under the guise of an internship. And then sex, feelings, relationship, new quarters, et cetera et cetera…” he makes a flashy ta-da gesture with his unoccupied hand and then shrugs. “You can guess the rest.”

 _Oh_.

“So, because I became an Avenger here…” Peter begins, feeling inordinately heartbroken.

“Yeah,” Stark finishes with a wince. “Our relationship changed as a result.”

“Oh,” Peter whispers, chewing at his lower lip. He could honestly cry right now.

_If only, right?_

Had he really been that close? Is that one stupid split-second decision the determining difference between his reality and his wildest dreams?

“Don’t do that,” Stark says. He sets down the machine part and places both hands flat on the counter, leaning forward to level Peter with a pointed look. “You can’t think like that.”

“How would you know what I’m thinking?” Peter questions, voice quaking. He’s not sure if he’s angry at this point, or just straight-up shattered. He’s leaning more towards shattered, though.

“Uh, hate to break it to you, but I’ve seen a lot more of Peter Parker than you’d care to know. I easily have all the required CRs to get a goddamn PhD in Peter Parker. Doesn’t matter if you’re from here of a different universe; I know you. So I’m gonna tell you again -- stop kicking yourself.”

“But--”

“I mean, feel sad or pissed all you want,” Stark continues. “Your feelings are valid or whatever the youth are saying nowadays. This genuinely sucks, because you’ll never know for sure what opportunities you missed. So you _should_ be upset, that’s your right. Exercise your rights and whatnot. Go vote. Voice your opinions. Go to protests. I’m… starting to go off-topic.”

Peter laughs wetly, grateful at Stark’s special method of easing the worst of his pain. Mr. Stark does it, too, because it works.

“Back to my original point,” Stark redirects, “and listen, because I make very good points.” He exhales and looks Peter directly in the eyes, the intensity of his gaze making it clear that he means what he’s saying and actually needs Peter to listen.  “Feel whatever you want, but don’t direct it at yourself. Don’t criticize yourself or your choices. That’s not fair to you. Whatever decision you made was probably bound to happen, cause if the past few years have taught me anything, it’s that the universe ‘works in mysterious ways’. That’s literally just a nice way of saying that the universe is a petty asshole who likes to make people miserable. _It_ decided to not let you become an Avenger or anything resulting from that, not you. So, like, be sad and pissed at the universe -- that’s totally your right -- but don’t take it out on yourself.”   

Stark is certainly talkative when he chooses to be. Peter’s realizing that this man has two settings -- avoidant and radio-silent, or ready to lecture off Peter’s damn ear. Peter almost prefers the former.

Well, that’s not true. But he’d like to think that, because it’s annoying how Stark kind of has a point.

He really does have a point.

 _Goddammit_.

“Okay,” Peter relents, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Great. Awesome. I’ll try not to.”

“For what it’s worth, kid, I’m sorry.”

Peter groans and crosses his arms on the countertop, burying his face in them. “Stop being so nice,” he complains. “And while we’re at it, please don’t tell me again that I have a chance in my world.”

Having Stark be nice and thoughtful is genuinely unsettling because he’s trying his very best to keep separate his feelings for the two Tony Stark's, and it’s harder when both of them are nice to Peter.

He’s always been a sucker for kindness.

Not to mention if Stark’s blatantly optimistic opinions are voiced again?

Peter would be fucked.

He’s barely been keeping a weak lid on all these Stark-related feelings as it is. He’s been managing for years. That’s a lot of hard work, so Peter would prefer that this Tony Stark _doesn’t_ come barreling in with his ambiguous prophecies and kick over that entire fucking pot, _thank you very much_.

“Uh, sorry?” Stark sounds alarmingly sarcastic. “I’ll hold off on my _very valid_ opinions, then, for the time being. And on the subject of niceness -- if I were actually nice, I wouldn’t have left you to yourself for the past three days and ignored your existence. I wouldn’t have forced you come down and look for me in my lab.”

Great. It’s always been incredibly unsettling for Peter to hear apologies from Tony Stark. This world is no different.

“I mean, this can’t be easy on you, either,” Peter tries.

Stark shakes his head and makes a cutting motion with his hands. “Stop defending me. I’m an adult, and as weird as this is for me, it’s worse for you. And I should have done more. I’ll do better.” He reaches forward and lays a gentle hand on Peter’s bicep. “I will.”

Peter goes stiff under that simple burning contact and he lets out an involuntary, soft exhale.

Stark stares. He watches, lips parted and eyes intent as Peter takes a deep breath and composes himself. The hand on Peter’s arm tightens just slightly, before it withdraws. “Uh.” Stark clears his throat. “I like said, I’ll make an effort to be a better host. I’m... _sorry_ I haven’t been.”

A genuine, somber apology sounds incredibly wrong when spoken in Stark’s voice. It's acceptable when stated in nonchalance, or sarcastically, or any number of ways -- but to have Tony Stark utter one with such undisguised sincerity? Peter flinches. “Sir…” he protests.

“Nope! I’m gonna stop you right there. Don’t interrupt me, I don’t like being interrupted. Just listen to my apology -- God knows I rarely give them, so this is a special occasion -- do what you will with it, and know that I’ll try harder, okay? That’s all I’m asking.”

Peter opens his mouth to argue, but then changes his mind. He, himself, is a stubborn brat, but Tony Stark has always outdone him in that competition. “Okay,” he finally concedes. “And I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“That’s debatable. I do, though.”

“Of course you do.”  

Should Peter be concerned that this Stark seems so familiar with him, seems to know him so well?

Probably.

Should he be concerned that when Stark interacts with him, Peter can feel a burning spark that he also sees reflected in the man’s eyes?

Definitely.

Is he, though?

Not really.

\---

It’s a sweet kind of torture to share the same living space as Stark, to be at a distance but also incredibly close.

After their talk, things change like Stark had claimed they would.

 _Immediately_.

As soon as their morning talk starts to taper off, Stark claps his hands and announces that he’s finished with his lab for the day. “How about breakfast?” he asks breezily. _False bravado._ “You’re a growing spider-boy, after all. You need nutrients. Protein, monounsaturated fats...fiber?”

Peter blinks, caught off-guard by sudden segue and the offer of breakfast. Whatever happened to Stark avoiding him like a plague?

It seems he pauses a second too long, though, because Stark makes an impatient gesture and damn near orders, “Get up. We’re going to the kitchen.”

Without even thinking about it, Peter rises to his feet.

He’d always had a little bit of a back-and-forth with Mr. Stark. It’d taken them years, but they’d reached a happy medium of Peter obeying him, but also feeling comfortable enough to question him.

That is _so not_ the case with this Stark. For some reason, Peter’s body just straight-up takes this man’s orders as they’re doled out. On some subconscious level, he recognizes that he has less leeway with this man.

After all, this is the man who had been about ready to strangle him back on Titan. And that's not at all like -- that'd never been --

As angry or frustrated as Mr. Stark had gotten with Peter on numerous, well-deserved occasions, he'd never come close to lifting a single finger. In no universe could Peter imagine Mr. Stark seeing his face and doing anything violent... _right_?

(Not for the first time, Peter desperately tries to imagine what could have happened back in his own universe. What had Mr. Stark done, how had he reacted, when facing a different Peter?)

Regardless, though, Peter knows one thing: he would do well to listen to _this_ Stark while under _his_ roof.

He trails Stark to the kitchen and then sits where Stark points -- at a bar stool at the island. “Any breakfast food aversions?” Stark asks him, and Peter shakes his head, mute. “Oh-kay, pancakes it is, then. I have this mix that Alton Brown always sends me. It’s amazing.”

“T-That’s cool.” Peter licks his lips and watches as the other man stretches to pull a giant container of mix out of a cupboard.  

“You bet it is.” Stark pauses at the cupboard and looks back. “You like chocolate chips, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves, right? And a bit of pumpkin spice?”

“Yes? How--oh.”

Stark shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. He measures out the mix with precise motions, and glances at Peter apologetically. “I’m still trying to gauge exactly how much our worlds have in common, so I'm going to bounce some things off of you. How do you like your eggs?”

“Hard, and a little burnt?”

“Bingo. How do prefer your oatmeal?”

“Irish, milled, with some Nutella stirred in.”

“ _Ding ding ding._ ”

It’s strangely easy, just bouncing trivia and preferences back and forth like some fucked up Jeopardy without a scoreboard. And all his answers match with the other Peter, as well.

It’s not until Stark slides a giant stack of pancakes in front of him that Peter realizes he’s just divulged countless tidbits of information about himself, and the older man has divulged _absolutely nothing._

“Uh, what about you?” Peter stammers out, around a mouthful of pancakes. They’re _delicious_. He takes a second to wonder if his own Mr. Stark can cook food, or if he’s as much of a disaster in the kitchen as any logical person would easily assume.

“Not to make this unfair, but I know you already,” Stark says, in lieu of any answer. He takes a long minute to drain his mug of coffee. He then levels Peter with a serious look and says, “I’m just confirming what I already know, so I’m not learning anything new. But wouldn’t _you_ rather have the pleasure of learning about your own Tony Stark from the source? Cause I think you would. Besides, I’m not an asshole who gives spoilers to people, so you're out of luck.”

“But--”

“Nope!” Stark waggles his index finger. “I’m making the executive call here. I’m not telling you anything. Sorry, not sorry.”

 _Drat._ Peter sighs.

“Except…”

Peter perks up at Stark’s drawl, and the man smirks. “What?” Peter asks, leaning forward. " _What?_ "

“Alright, one thing, then,” Stark relents. “Tony Stark _really_ likes it when Peter Parker wears vintage-looking MIT gear.”

“What?”

“It’s a possessive thing.” He stares at Peter meaningfully, pauses for a few loaded seconds, and then nods towards the plate. “Enjoy your breakfast. Just toss the plates in the sink when you’re done. I’ll be in the lab; come down afterwards if you want.”

Peter mulls over that one morsel of information as he finishes his breakfast, and then promptly chokes on his orange juice at a sudden realization.

He furiously coughs, dribbling all over his worn-out sweatshirt -- his worn-out, borrowed, _MIT sweatshirt._

_Jesus._

\---

Peter can’t decide if Stark feels sorry for him, or if they’ve reached some sort of messed up camaraderie since they’re both stuck in a downright shitty situation. Whatever it may be, the end result is the same: he sees the man more frequently for the rest of that day.   

Actually, _suspiciously_ frequently.

Stark is kind of... _everywhere_. Always popping up, crossing paths with Peter, taking that extra minute to check in with him for the rest of that day. It starts as mere suspicion, but by the evening, Peter is positive that Stark is going out of his way to make frequent and brief contact with Peter. He sees the man maybe _what_? By Peter's count... _seven_ times that day? That’s probably six times more than Peter would expect.

He avoids the lab after breakfast, and the man fucking _seeks him out_.

That’s not normal.

It’s also a little terrifying, because Stark seems to be warming up to Peter in that weird, emotionally stunted way of his. They’re nowhere close to mentor and mentee, but the man shoots Peter these odd looks that are some sort of weird-friendly. It makes Peter’s spidey-senses go a little haywire.

Peter honest-to-god can’t decide if it makes the situation better, that Stark tries his hardest to be amicable and friendly and present. Considering how the relationship between Stark and _his_ Peter seems to permeate in every interaction Peter's had with Stark so far, he's leaning towards a resounding  _no._  No, Stark's constant presence is not making matters any better. 

That's not the most troubling part, though. 

What's troubling is how Peter’s starting to like the man a little bit, as well. More than a little bit, actually. The man been alluring in a quasi-familiar way, ever since Titan. The closest Peter can come to explaining the attraction is that hot friend of Uncle Ben’s -- Jim, was it? -- that Peter had such an obvious crush on when he was eleven. Basically, there’s a shallow familiarity there, but there’s also a degree of separation and mystery.

So, Stark’s sudden lingering presence, for all that Peter appreciates it, is dangerous and alarming. It’s also kind of more than Peter wants, for the sake of his own sanity; each goddamn encounter inexplicably feels like sticking his hand into fire.

There’s something in the air that’s heavy and messy and complicated, that looms over the both of them nonstop like some ghost-demon-spirit in one of those paranormal horror movies Peter hates so much.

In this instance, however, Peter would much more prefer an actual horror movie.  

Because as demented as it is, their energy is undeniably sexual.

Peter’s body is young. Dynamic. Hormonal. He sees Tony Stark, and he _hungers_.

The way Stark looks at him sometimes, when he thinks Peter won’t notice? It’s telling. Peter knows the other man feels some sort of way. Maybe the love and emotional bond isn’t quite there, but the lust certainly is. It’s conditioned into them -- an innate, insuppressible instinct. Even if they’re different people, Peter is a literal replica of the person Stark’s been fucking regularly. That’s gotta cross at least a few wires.  

On top of that, if you add on that earth-shattering kiss from back on Titan, then…

Well.

Peter pictures it like this:

The two of them are standing in a pool of gasoline, and Peter is clutching a handful of lit matches. Either way, Peter will get burned. He’ll feel the heat. There’s no avoiding that.

If he drops even a single match, though? They’ll _both_ burn.

The big question is whether Peter will drop any matches.  

The bigger question is whether he might want to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and I hope my unrevised trash didn't put you off too hard! Feel free to holla at ya girl in the comments; I'm a slut for feedback ;)


	5. It's Gotta Be Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter, like the disaster that he is, plays an awkward game of chicken with Stark, because he both wants to be around the man and avoid him at the same time. 
> 
> Oh, Peter, you fucking dork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will start out by saying that I'm terrible. Two weeks, I know! Life kicked my ass. I didn't revise and upload. 
> 
> So, I took an extra day to elaborate and restructure so that this chapter is longer! Also, it's packed full of Peter-Stark interactions as well. Please take that as my formal apology for being the world's flakiest fanfic writer <3 <3 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoy!

Day four is entirely some living version of purgatory. Peter’s sure of it. It’s gotta be purgatory, because he can’t otherwise explain just how on-edge everything is.

Or how conflicted he feels.

It starts out relatively easy -- _relatively_ being the key word.

Peter wakes up. His pillow is a bit damp, and when he yawns, the skin on his face tugs in that telltale way which speaks of dried tears.

So he misses home. Sue him.

If he concentrates, he can vaguely remember that his dream was completely, blissfully _normal_.

In his dream, Peter had cycled through a standard day. He’d eaten breakfast with May and kissed her goodbye, hung out with Ned and MJ at school, and spent some time working in the lab with Mr. Stark.

Nothing out of the ordinary at all, but so simple and nice.

Peter wants that.

Peter needs that.

He gets a taste of that.

And then, he wakes up.

And _then_ , it’s back to his dreary, harrowing reality with its off-kilter-ness and mass of conflicting emotions.

The good thing is, Stark is no longer avoiding him.

The bad thing is, _Stark is no longer avoiding him_.

Even worse, though? This Stark rouses certain unwanted sentiments in Peter, and these sentiments are not tempered with personal connection and history. With his own Mr. Stark, it’s easier for Peter to control himself, because he genuinely doesn’t want to fuck up their existing relationship. Their friendship and mentor-mentee relationship mean the world to him, and it’s around 90% of the reason Peter hasn’t yet decided to throw caution to the wind and embarrassingly throw himself at the man.

That‘s not quite the case here.

Here, there’s no relationship to fuck up.

Besides -- sooner or later, Peter will get to leave this hellhole behind and never think about it again.

(Or so he desperately hopes.)

So all in all, the temptation is driving him _insane_.

And Peter wants to kick himself because what kind of a decent mentee and son-figure would think like he’s thinking? It’s opportunistic in the most heinous way.

He’s not proud of it.

 _I should be better than this_ , he thinks. _And apparently, I’m not._

Mr. Stark would have wanted Peter to be better, probably.

Peter’s disappointing Mr. Stark, probably.

Peter’s sorry -- sorry that he’s  _not_ sorry enough to stay away from Stark.

The reasonable part of him -- it sounds strangely like Ned, actually -- recognizes that the best course of action would be to limit his contact with Stark. With each second that ticks by, that voice gets alarmingly dimmer and dimmer.

_Not good._

Another part of him had taken the party detour down YOLO Avenue. That voice, for some reason, sounds strangely like MJ. If Peter really considers it, though, that makes sense. MJ’s always been the one to push Peter to _live a little._

The result of Peter’s soap opera level of internal conflict is just straight up _chaotic_ : Peter deliberately wanders within range of Stark (because he has _no self-control whatsoever_ and is hopelessly drawn to the man), freaks out over one thing or another, and Hail Hary’s the hell out of there.

This occurs multiple times.  

It’s like the anxiety-ridden version of some fucked-up mating dance, and Peter’s aware that he probably seems batshit insane to Stark.

He does it, anyway.

If he were anyone else but himself, it would be funny to watch.

\---

Stark is standing at the kitchen island in the morning, nursing a cup of coffee -- probably his third cup after slamming the first two back, if he’s anything like Peter’s Mr. Stark. “Morning,” Stark says. “Sleep well?”

There’s a generous sprinkling of morning gravel in his voice, and Peter feels a drop low in his belly, fluttery and ticklish like the sensation of rolling over the apex of a rollercoaster. “Uh, yeah!” Peter squeaks out. “Great!”

One could think puberty hadn’t hit him yet, with how pitchy his voice goes.

Then again, the heat that tickles under his skin as Stark looks him up and down says otherwise.

Stark, in that strange, intense way of his, seems content to lean against the counter and just _look._

At Peter. 

With those _fucking eyes,_ framed by those _fucking eyelashes_ that are _so damn chocolatey-brown_.

 _You need to calm down, Peter,_ Ned’s voice says in that _Ned_ tone which is perfectly reasonable.

_No, you need to jump his bones while you have the chance._

Ah, MJ. Swooping in and enabling Peter to be a shameless, go-getting thot -- one of her favorite phrases. MJ’s all about safe sexual liberation, not that her philosophies are of _any_ benefit to Peter in this current situation.

Stark keeps staring.

Peter gulps.

Stark smiles. It’s likely a totally harmless and friendly smile, but in Peter’s distorted mind, it looks like a fucking shark that’s ready to devour someone.

Devour him.

 _Let him,_ MJ eggs on.

Peter forces a strained, shaky smile that feels totally unnatural on his face. He turns and bolts off like the coward he is.

\---

“ _Mr. Parker?_ ” the ceiling asks.

“Yeah, FRIDAY, what’s up?”

_“Boss is asking if you’d like to join him in the lab.”_

_Yeah, and keep that MIT sweatshirt you’re wearing_ , his traitorous brain supplies.

Just for that, he’s tempted to reject the invitation. Cut out the temptation.

But then Peter thinks of Stark, alone in this empty compound.

The thing with post-snap life is that everyone on the planet checks out for anytime from a week to a month, meaning that the compound is in an eerie skeleton mode. Peter had thought that there would be other people around, but there aren't. 

There will be, eventually.

For the time being, though, the compound is devoid of life except for him and Stark.

 _Fortunately or unfortunately_.

The Tony Stark in this universe is equally generous, and he gives all his staff PTO to be with their families. Pepper and Rhodey are off doing just that, and so is Happy after a lot of convincing. The other Avengers are off with their own loved ones and scheduled to return within the month. From what Stark has mentioned, Vision is a regular presence around the compound, but is currently off exploring the world with Wanda Maximoff in a well-earned sabbatical.

Steve Rogers is set to arrive within the month along with Bucky Barnes, and Peter is not sure how to feel about that, even if he’s gathered that the Cap of this universe managed to do better by Stark. The Accords still broke up the Avengers and there’s tension, but whatever gave Mr. Stark that haunted look at any mention of the Captain or Winter Soldier did not take place. It’s not as bad as it could have been; it’s not as personal.  

That’s a bridge to cross when they get to it, though.

Right now, the immediate issue is that the compound is drearily vacant. Peter remembers the last three days and how quickly he began to unravel with no human contact.

He can’t stand the thought of Stark going through the same.

Even if this Stark isn’t his own, Peter wants to help the man. Protect him. In fact, Peter’s beginning to think that it’s just virtually _impossible_ to not care about Tony Stark.

That’s not something he can help, though. He also can’t bring himself to care. Maybe he’ll always be like this. Maybe Peter Parker is just doomed to always care about Tony Stark -- who knows?

All he knows is that at this very moment, Stark has him, and he has Stark.

That’s about it.

Peter’s still refusing to bother May, and since he and Stark are both chips off the same self-sacrificial block, Peter imagines that the older man is operating under the same plan of action.

“Yes, FRIDAY, let Stark know I’ll be right down,” Peter says, already cringing at the thought of spending time in close proximity to the man.

_This is gonna hurt._

He makes a point of shucking his sweatshirt from a very particular educational institution, even if he’s tempted to keep wearing it. Instead, he slips on a soft, boring henley. 

Maybe he takes too many risks as Spider-Man, but as Peter Parker, he’d rather play it safe and demure.

“Parker,” Stark greets when he glances up and sees Peter lingering in the doorway to the lab. He gestures with a crook of his finger. “Step on over. I'm working on something that I need you for.”

“Me?” Peter asks, cautiously making his way to the opposite side of the metal lab table. He’s grateful for the barrier the table provides as he faces Stark -- the fluorescence of the lab seems to emphasize all the shadows and wrinkles of the man’s skin in a way that illogically appeals to Peter.

For some reason, the casual, rugged Tony Stark of the lab rat variety is one of Peter’s favorites. He’s candid and imperfectly lovely in a way which is far more tangible and accessible than some glossy Forbes cover.

Even if Peter had a shallow crush on the billionaire tycoon with his crisp Tom Ford suits ( _who wouldn’t?_ ), he only loves the man under that with his undereye bags and those deep, deep wrinkles which crease at the corners of his eyes when he laughs.

“Yeah,” Stark says, shooting Peter an amused look. “I vant your blud,” he says, in a terrible imitation of a Russian accent. “Not burd, blud.”  

“Huh?”

“Oh, there was this thing a bunch of years ago, during that attack at the Stark Expo -- you remember that, don’t you? I went to taunt Hammer in the slammer at one point; it was one of the few things that salty bastard would share with me. Basically, the villain behind the attack was Russian and he _really_ liked his bird.”

Peter stares.

Stark waves his hand dismissively. “Ignore my rambling,” he says, “Just … I need your blood because I want to do a sample analysis of your blood compared to my Peter’s blood. It’s a once-in-two-lifetimes opportunity -- nobody else will _ever_ get a chance to do this. Ever. So, is that okay?”

_My Peter._

Honestly, Peter’s sure he’ll never get used to that. He’ll never get to a point where hearing Stark’s claim over his own Peter doesn’t make his heart twinge at least a little bit.

“Okay,” he agrees, fully on board with the experiment. It sounds interesting. It sounds like a way to kill time. “Can I know the results, too? I’m curious.”

“Sure thing,” Stark agrees. “I’m a curious scientist and you’re one in the making. No reason why not.”

What Peter had failed to consider -- but suddenly realizes as Stark moves to gather equipment -- is that to get blood drawn, he has to let Stark physically handle him. And Stark hasn’t physically touched him since that kiss on Titan.

Well, that’s not true; Stark had touched his shoulder briefly yesterday, but that was brief.

 _Painfully brief_ , Peter thinks, and then he tries to shake that thought of like a pesky mosquito. It won’t help his situation at all if he gets attached to Stark’s touch.

Still, Peter sticks with his dubious decision to let Stark draw his blood.

He rolls up the sleeve of his henley before Stark can return and try to do it, because there’s no way he’s letting Stark do anything that’s remotely close to undressing him. His self-control might not hold out through that. He extends a shaking arm when Stark comes to a standstill in front of him and places the tray down on the table.

Stark’s eyebrows fly up at the visible quivering of Peter’s limb. He takes Peter’s forearm in his hand -- Peter tries to ignore how Stark’s grip nearly envelops the circumference of his arm -- and helps brace it so that it’s held still and extended straight. “Scared of needles?” Stark asks, in reference to Peter’s minute shaking.

“Something like that,” Peter lies.

With Stark’s skin pressed to his, Peter barely feels the needle sliding in.

Peter’s eyes the dark blood that quickly flows into the test tube, fisted in Stark’s other hand. There’s something unsettling about seeing his blood flow into the man’s grasp. It moves something deep inside Peter.  

“Just three tubes should be enough,” Stark murmurs, momentarily letting go of Peter’s arm. With practiced, dexterous movements, he untwists the first tube, lays it on the tray, and seamlessly connects a second one.

Then, he gently takes Peter’s arm again. This time, his thumb brushes against the side of Peter’s elbow once, twice, a third time, and his hands grip a little more firmly.

Stark is also barely breathing.

Peter’s gaze snaps up to the man and he sees Stark’s closed-off expression. Those brown eyes are practically boring into crook of Peter’s elbow, where the needle is taped to his skin. “Is three tubes alright?” Stark suddenly asks, voice low and strange.  

“Uh.” Peter swallows and licks his lips. “Maybe take a few more than that? Just in case? It’s better to have more blood drawn than not enough blood, right? So that we don’t have to do it again?”

 _I don’t think I can handle a second time,_ he thinks.

Stark looks up at him in that discerning and stripping way of his, as if he knows exactly why Peter’s not up for a repeat performance. “Sure thing,” he agrees, though. “Five, then?”

“Five is fine,” Peter says. “Go for it.”

Stark looks back down, Peter looks away, and the next four tubes pass in silence.

Once the last tube is filled and set down in the tray, Stark efficiently slides the needle out and tucks it into a small bag for later disposal. “You want a band-aid?” he asks. “I know you have super-healing, but still. If you want one, I’ve got some.”

“Is it going to be Hello Kitty?” Peter asks before he can stop himself.  

“No,” Stark says. “Iron Man.”

“Oh. Uh, sure.”

As Stark sticks on the band-aid to the soft inner skin of Peter’s elbow, he pauses for a moment that’s barely noticeable, as if the moment is catching up with him.

Peter, too, feels a jump in his stomach at that brief moment of limbo.

On one hand, a grown man having plasters of his superhero alter-ego is amusing.

On the other hand, using Iron Man to cover Peter’s wounds feels inexplicably poetic.

“Uh, thanks.” Peter clears his throat. He smiles weakly and gently extracts his arm from Stark’s hands.

The man shakes himself out of some haze of thought and steps back a few feet. “Nah, thank _you_ ,” Stark responds. “For sharing your blood. It’s gonna be interesting to study. You want to stay and work on something, by the way?”

Stark absentmindedly scoops up the five tests in one hand and Peter’s eyes are immediately drawn to the way the tendons and veins of Stark’s forearms ripple as he accommodates the girth of those tubes.

They’d probably ripple more beautifully as they worked Peter over in other ways, which is a thought that lies in 100% forbidden, off-limits, _do-not-trespass_ territory.

 _I need to get out of here,_ Peter thinks, with no little alarm. _Before I do something in bad taste. Coming down here was reckless._

He wouldn’t have done differently, regardless. He would have come, regardless.

“Coffee?” Peter stutters out, desperate for any sort of a temporary distraction. A short time away is good -- he can cool off, take a minute to himself, and come back once he’s more put together. That way, he’ll minimize the racket in his head without leaving Stark alone -- just the idea of Stark alone in his lab hurts Peter’s heart. “Food? Lunch? Down here? I’ll grab some?”

“Sure thing,” Stark says, looking weirded out at Peter’s scrambled-up words, “just grab whatever you like. I’ll eat whatever.”  

Peter speedwalks the entire distance to the kitchen just to get out of the range of this heady, heady type of fog that seems to soak into his skin against his will. He sticks his hands under the cool faucet and forces deep breaths in and out -- his heart has been pounding ever since the blood draw.

He closes his eyes and imagines, well, death. He thinks about that horrible place of nothingness and how inherently wrong disintegration feels. Reintegration, too. Neither are painful, exactly, but the feeling is eerie and he’ll never forget it.

Once upon a time, Peter had dreamt that he was laying in bed, ready to fall asleep, when a phantom figure above him had raised a creaky, wrinkled claw and plunged a knife deep into his chest. For days after, he’d been haunted by the horrifying sensation of the knife piercing his flesh, the sharp sound of metal slashing through air, the muted sucking noise of flesh being penetrated …

This is that, times a thousand.

And by drawing on this sickening memory, Peter manages to obliterate all the remaining tendrils of arousal which had been in his body when he rushed into the kitchen.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, forcing down a sudden urge to tear up.

Memories of dying will do that to a person.

Peter would still take that over recklessly giving into his lust-driven urges. He wants to be good. He wants to live up to the good-boy persona he’s always had -- the one he’s always prided himself in, and the one he knows Mr. Stark and May adore.  

He’s trying so hard to be good. If that means forcing himself to feel really fucking desolate more often than not?

So be it.

He busies himself with the food -- tomato soup and grilled cheeses -- obsessively scraping mayonnaise over the bread and toasting each sandwich to a perfect golden brown on both sides before laying them out on a paper-towel-lined plate. He adds extra cheese in the middle, a blend of white cheddar, yellow cheddar, and havarti that gets all melty and oozes out when he slices them diagonally into careful isosceles triangles.

Just for the heck of it -- and because he needs something warm and substantial to fill up that one point of him which feels miserably hollow -- Peter absolutely _stacks_ the plate with grilled cheeses. He takes two jumbo mugs, fills them with tomato soup, arranges all three items on a giant serving tray, and grabs the appropriate silverware and napkins.

He takes a deep breath, mentally steels himself, and then heads back towards the labs with the tray balanced in both hands.

“That looks incredible,” Stark remarks as Peter steps back in the lab. “Here, set that down. Take a seat. FRIDAY is synthesizing, anyways, so we have down time to eat.”

The way Stark leans back on his lab stool with his legs spread and arms crossed makes Peter’s heart pound all over again. He approaches the man to set the tray down beside him. The stool set out for Peter is mere feet away, and Peter catches a delicious whiff of soap and aftershave as he skims past the man to lay out the food and seat himself. “I, uh, hope you like tomato soup,” he murmurs, feeling insecurity and something rather fluttery bubble in his belly. “And grilled cheese.”

Stark digs right in -- Peter assumes that with the other Peter so involved in the man’s life, this Stark might be a little better at looking after himself and eating a normal amount of food. “This is incredible,” the man remarks as he swirls a corner of his bitten sandwich in his giant mug of tomato soup. “The bread is perfectly toasted -- how’d you get it like that? Butter?”

“Uh, mayo,” Peter says. It’s barely much of a compliment -- simply just a remark about food -- but it still causes heat to bloom in his cheeks. It feels inappropriately good to be complimented on his ability to … _provide_.

What the hell is the matter with him? He’s never been so flustered by a simple domestic task. Other things, sure. Things such as helping Mr. Stark accomplish something in the lab and receiving ample praise, or getting a good grade and receiving compliments … or anything that earns praise, now that Peter thinks about it.

Is praise a thing for him? Is it a kink? He’ll have to look into that more.

Peter take a brief note, and then answers Stark. “You, uh, you just spread some mayo on the side of the bread that touches the pan, you know? It gets seared and it gives the bread a really nice crust.”

“Great tip,” Stark says. “I’ll keep it in mind for the future. It sounds like something Alton Brown would tell me. Why hasn’t he?”

Peter blinks, then. It’s the second time the man has brought up the food expert. “Uh, what is it with you and Alton Brown?” he asks, settling back with his own mug. “Are you guys friends?”

Stark shrugs. “Have you watched _Cutthroat Kitchen_? The man is an absolute dominant personality, _and_ he loves making people’s lives difficult. We have similar personalities in that respect, so we _mesh_. We’re _buddies_. We _bond_ over stuff.”

“... Oh?” Peter swallows thickly. “I … uh. Didn’t know that. About you, I mean; Alton Brown is a little obvious. He’s just … you know? But I didn’t know you were, uh. _Well_.”

_Oh my god, Peter, shut up. Why are you like this?_

“A dominant?” Stark offers, in place of Peter’s clumsy circumventions. “Or _the_ dominant?” He waggles his eyebrows. “I mean, sure -- that, too. Obviously. Anybody could guess that about me. Besides, you know your own preferences, don’t you? And you know your Mr. Stark pretty well, I'd say?”

“... Yeah?” Peter pretends he’s not indirectly admitting to being submissive. He pretends he's not revealing an intimate part of himself that he hasn't even found the time and guts to explore, yet. Sure, it’s nothing Stark doesn’t already know, but it still feels like vulnerable overexposure.

“Then, you could assume the type of dynamic a relationship between Peter Parker and Tony Stark would naturally take. It’s an easy conclusion, Parker.”

“I … try not to think about it.” Peter blushes and studies the bite marks on his sandwich to avoid looking at Stark.  

“Why not?” Stark asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Thinking things over won’t hurt anyone.”

“They’ll hurt _me_ ,” Peter blurts out, looking back up before he can stop himself. He immediately regrets it when he meets Stark’s stricken expression. “I, uh, don’t want to dwell on things that will never happen anyways,” he clumsily elaborates, because Stark’s expression is discomfiting to witness and the only solution his scrambled brain can think of is to explain his way through it. “That’s a little less heartache on my end.”

Stark is silent for a long moment as he visibly contemplates a thought. Peter already knows what it is -- it’s that unshakable, highly biased, _utterly infuriating_ belief that every Peter Parker in any universe is destined to be with that same universe’s Tony Stark.

Fortunately, Stark hasn't forgotten how touchy the topic is for Peter, so he swallows down his immediate reaction with what looks like mild difficulty. “Well, still,” he drawls, after a pained pause. “You know what I’m thinking. I’m not going to say it. And if you want, let’s move along to a different subject.”

“Please,” Peter says. “Let’s do that.”

“What shall we talk about, then?” Stark concedes.

“Uh …” Peter ponders for a few seconds before blurting out the first thing that comes to mind: “What other celebrities have you met?”

Stark shoots him a perplexed look. “You’ve never asked your own Stark this?” he questions. “He probably has a lot of stories.”

“I - I didn’t want to hear about his … exploits,” Peter says. “I was curious, but it would have sucked, you know? I’ve only known him since he’s stopped being … Uh. Well.”

“A manslut?” Stark chuckles, darkly.

“In different words, yes?”

“Makes sense, makes sense,” Stark admits, and then he shoves the rest of his grilled cheese into his mouth. He chews, swallows, and then asks, “Any celebrity in particular you’re wondering about?”

Peter shrugs. He’s thrown off balance when Stark tilts his head back and takes a long gulp of his tomato soup. Peter can’t help but follow the bobbing of the older man’s Adam's apple with hungry eyes. He inexplicably wants to lean in and lick up the man's throat, feel the bump for himself with his tongue.

What would Stark's skin taste like? His sweat? Or his --?

Peter glances away, quickly, as Stark sets the mug down and look towards Peter.

A loaded silence follows. It’s barely a quarter of a second longer than a normal pause, and only minutely tenser than an average moment, but Peter gets the disconcerting sense that he’d been caught staring.

 _Oh well, it’s nothing Stark doesn’t already know_ , he reminds himself hysterically.  _Right? No harm done._

“Uh, n-nobody in particular,” Peter stutters. “Just curious, you know? Did the other Peter ever ask you…?”

_Why, Peter, why?_

He can't _begin_ to understand why he keeps asking questions that he _knows_ will land him in the hot seat -- is this a latent masochistic tendency or something? All Peter knows is that his uncontrolled, incessant questioning _will_ swing back and bite him in the ass, sooner or later. 

Probably sooner.

“Oh, yeah,” Stark says. “Peter knows everything. He _wants_ to know everything. All the details. He’s definitely a little bit -- uh.” Seemingly, whatever his words had been leading to is less than savory, because Stark looks abashed and clumsily redirects himself. “I guess I shouldn’t tell you about whatever … _preferences_ another Peter Parker may have. That’s something you should figure out for yourself -- you should discover your own preferences.”

 _Kinks,_ Peter’s mind unhelpfully supplies. _He means kinks._

Disturbingly, Peter finds himself rather intrigued by the notion of his other self’s kinks. He kind of wants to know.

He _really_ wants to know, actually.

What does the other Peter call Stark in bed? Does the other Peter like the idea of being held down and just taken?

Does he occasionally like being brutally put down and degraded, and then praised like a precious, precious thing, all within the span of a softly spoken sentence?

Does he grow weak-kneed at the sharp contrast between harsh yelling and caring whispers?

And more importantly, what does Stark like doing to him? What does he like to hear? What does he like to see? Does he like the feeling of Peter gagging on his cock? Does he like the sound of debauched, desperate wails as he fucks Peter within an inch of his life? Does he --?

_Stop, Jesus Christ, Peter, stop. Abort. Abort._

Peter forces his thoughts to a standstill -- the arousal swirling in his belly is coming on _way_ too fast and powerful for his current location and company. He _can’t_ , not if he wants to save the last slivers of face he has left.

Peter grits his teeth and schools his expression into the softest, most innocent one he can manage, even as his mind echoes with the remnants of his filthy thoughts. It's like the inside of his head is a mountain range and some pervert hiker had scaled up some peak and yodeled, long and loud and obnoxious.

He’d rather _not_ let Stark know that he’s currently wondering what the other man’s reaction would be if he were called ‘Daddy’ in bed.

Entirely focused on _not_ thinking any more dirty thoughts, Peter chews at his lip unconsciously, and then licks at the tip of his thumb -- there’d been some grease left over from the sandwich.

It isn’t until he gently sucks at the tip and hears a sudden, sharp inhale, that he realizes how indecent his fidgeting is.

His gaze snaps to Stark, and he's met with a gaze that just about burns him.

The man looks absolutely ravenous, even though he’s finished his third grilled cheese.

 _Oops_.

Obviously, there’s complications on Stark’s end, too.

If Peter pushes … if he plays at seduction, would Stark…?

_Stop that._

Despite his internal voice of reason, Peter feels all of his blood start rushing in the _one_ direction he _doesn’t_ want it to go.

_Get out, Parker. Get out, now._

“Oh! Uh, I have to go get something,” Peter squeaks out, jumping to his feet. He winces at how loud and dissonant the chair sounds as it scrapes angrily against the floor. “From the bedroom. I have to go to my room. I will, er, see you later. Feel free to finish the rest of the food, it’s all yours!”

“Okay?”

The longer Peter spends around Stark, the more he realizes just how attainable this man might be. And the more he realizes that, the more that  _carpe diem_ half of himself feels the itch to simply reach out and do unspeakably dirty things.

So, he flees out of the lab and locks himself in his room. He throws himself onto his back and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing heavily through clenched teeth as he wills himself not to touch the persistent, aching erection that’s tenting at his pants.

He tries thinking about the other Peter, back in his world. He thinks about what the other Peter might be doing with Mr. Stark. Are they friendly? Would the other Peter try to seduce Mr. Stark, just like Peter is tempted to do over here?

Uninvited, images of his own Mr. Stark giving in and fucking the other Peter come rushing to the forefront of his mind. From a third-person perspective, Peter imagines what it must look like -- his mirror image a sobbing, ruined mess underneath the older man.

And Mr. Stark would be such a _magnificent_ sight -- body covered in a sheen of sweat, back muscles rippling with each roll of his hips, soft grunts falling from those lips Peter’s wanted to kiss for as long as he can remember. Mr. Stark’s forearms would look absolutely corded with veins as those mechanic’s hands grip fiercely at Peter’s thighs to keep his legs spread wide open, forcing Peter into place as Peter writhes against the unforgiving fucking he’s receiving.

And _oh_ , that so does _not_ help.

All it does is ratchet Peter's arousal to a level which threatens to melt him from the inside out.

Oh, and it makes him feel jealous as fuck.

So, realizing that he’s out of options, Peter tries the old trick and thinks about dying on Titan.

What? It sucks, but it _works_.

Within minutes, he’s lying face-down and breathing through a panic attack, tears soaking into the surface of his pillow.

“ _Mr. Parker, are you alright?_ ” FRIDAY asks. “ _Do you need me to alert Boss?_ ”

“No, don't,” Peter gasps out, wiping snot off his face and choking over a painful sob. “Panic attack, I’ll be fine, I promise. Don’t say anything.”

_“...As you wish.”_

As the worst of his anxiety fades, Peter gets up and rinses away the tears and snot.

But the ache? That stays.

He really needs to find a better distraction.

\---

“Hey, Parker, I’m going to order dinner. You joining?”

Peter pops his head up from where he’s sprawled on the couch, watching a _HIMYM_ marathon. “Sure!” he says. His heart pounds, with a distinct edge of excitement.

Once again, he’d been weak and wandered out of his quarters, settling himself down in the living room where he knows Stark has a good chance of entering.

_Dinner! With Stark!!_

It’s not like he hasn’t had dinner and late night snacks with his own Mr. Stark during extended compound stays. In fact, that used to happen on a bi-weekly basis.

But this is an entirely different ball game with new rules and different stakes.

 _Wouldn’t you like to eat something else_ , a voice in his head crows. _What do you think would happen if you played footsie with him? Trailed your foot higher and higher until you could feel his --_

_NOPE. Nope. Bad Peter._

“No, I'm good!” Peter immediately corrects, horrified at how his depravity seems to be rising exponentially.

 _The limit does not exist,_  his mind supplies.He fights the urge to dissolve in tears and hyena laughter.

Stark raises an eyebrow. “Changing your mind?” he asks. “That was fast.”

“I just remembered,” Peter lies through his teeth. “I already ate.”

His stomach growls.

 _Loudly_.

Not unlike the sound of heavy construction right outside his apartment window during that one shitty summer. 

Stark raises his other eyebrow, as if to say _really?_

“Okay, so maybe I’m still hungry.” Peter amends, not wanting to be caught in a full lie. 

“Why not join me for a repeat dinner, then?” Stark suggests. “You're a growing spider-boy, after all. You need lots of food."

"Uh..."

A brief flash of hurt crosses Stark's face. It makes Peter's heartstrings twinge. Stark looks down, then back up. The moment stretches on torturously, and Peter wishes for the ground to swallow him up, or for a truck to run him over for hurting Stark like this. 

Stark finally says, voice soft, "I thought we talked out our main problems. Cleared the air, had our beef, etc etc?"

"We did," Peter croaks, feeling a lump grow in his throat. "We cleared the air."

"Then what am I still fucking up? Tell me and I’ll fix it, I swear.”

“It's not you,” Peter rushes to explain, feeling his heart crumble more and more at how Stark thinks _he's_ the one doing something wrong. “It’s my problem! It’s all me! You’re not fucking anything up, I promise!”

“ _‘It’s not you, it’s me'?_ ” Stark quotes, chuckling darkly. "Damn, Parker. Another movie reference?" 

“No --” Peter protests, before shutting his mouth. “Well, yeah, but please don’t feel bad!”

“I mean, I’d rather you _not_ feel like shit under my roof?” Stark says, shooting Peter a weary look. “Call it trying to be a good host, but can I help you out? Can I be a sounding wall? There has to be _something_ I can do. Besides, this game of chicken you’re playing with yourself is giving me whiplash.”

For all that the older man has a good facade of not caring -- refined through decades of practice -- he is secretly one of the _most_ conscientious people Peter knows. It’s obvious that Peter’s angst is weighing on the older man in some weird, distressing way. Whether it’s because Peter shares a face with Stark's boyfriend or because Stark’s simply looking out for his houseguest remains a mystery.

“Uh,” Peter begins, already regretting his decision to share. “You sure?”

“Yes. Spill, please.” Stark waves his hands in an ongoing gesture, as if to say, _out with it._

“It’s just two things -- the dying part makes it a little hard to breathe, sometimes.”

“Understandable,” Stark comments, forehead creasing in visible concern. “I can get you resources for that. Therapy. We can talk about it and figure out coping methods, trust me. I'll figure it out, okay?"

"Okay," Peter whispers, feeling his heart flutter. Being taken care of feels _good_. It shouldn't, but it does.

 _Too_ good, probably. 

"What’s the second problem?” Stark prompts.

“Uh … this entire situation.” Peter waves his hands in a vague circle. “It’s unsettling. I’m not sure how to feel about it or how to explain it.”

“If it helps, there’s no particular way you _should_ or _shouldn’t_ feel,” Stark says. “You feel how you do, and _that’s it_. You roll with it. How would you change it, anyways? Why would you spend more time than you have to, agonizing over something you’re gonna feel regardless? Besides, this entire _thing_ is totally unique and unheard of, so you’re within your rights to feel however you want.”

That’s certainly a comforting way to put it, even if it's a strange way. “That’s true,” Peter murmurs, mulling over Stark’s rather astute reasoning. It’s not like he can logic his way out of the attraction and the angst. The universe tossed all logic in the trash when it allowed Peter to land in the wrong universe. “This _is_ a very unprecedented situation.”

Besides, Stark is too sharp to _not_ have _some_ sort of a clue what Peter is feeling.

If Peter dares to think about it -- _which he doesn’t_ \-- Stark might be feeling similarly.

But Peter refuses to think about that beyond the briefest throwaway, so it’s moot.  

“Exactly.” Stark snaps his fingers. “So if being around me is giving you the type of trouble I imagine it might be, that’s _fine_. If you want to hang out, we can do that. If you want me to stay away, I’ll stay away. But I’m not going to point and judge you for any feelings you might have, alright? There’s no shame. I’m in the same boat as you, aren’t I?”

 _Ba-dum,_ Peter's heart goes.  _Ba-dum._

“Are you?” Peter asks, voice cracking.

Which _boat_ is Stark referring to? Is it the same boat that Peter is imagining? Is it the boat that he doesn’t dare utter out loud?

“Am I?” Stark raises a challenging eyebrow.

There’s a long, tense standoff where Stark waits for Peter to drop a bomb, and Peter contemplates doing so.

It would be so easy.

But he shrugs it away, because a bomb can’t be taken back once it’s dropped. And Peter _needs_ to be 100% sure and ready before he takes that irreversible step over the edge.

He needs to postpone this conversation they’re currently flirting with, before they reach the point of no return.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Peter requests. "Yet."

Stark nods his acceptance without a moment to spare. It's all very nice and accommodating of him. There’s an alluring dichotomy to how Stark can both grate on Peter in the worst ways, but be so obliging to Peter’s needs.

“That’s fine,” Stark says, “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“Thanks,” Peter murmurs, feeling immensely grateful.

“Don’t mention it,” Stark says, and that’s that. The topic gets dropped, easy. Stark asks, “What do you feel like doing?” and the ground under them steadies itself.

Honestly, what Peter should say is something along the lines of _‘I’m going to sequester myself in my room and prevent myself from making bad choices,’_ but then again, Stark had literally _just_ said that there's nothing to be ashamed of.

That Peter shouldn’t worry.

That he won’t be judged.

It’s like Peter had just been written a blank check of absolution.

Objectively speaking, Stark is a completely different man from his mentor. But hearing words of clemency in that same rich tone of voice with that same compelling air of authority still inspires a sense of trust and obedience in Peter.

“Uh, how about some pizza and a movie marathon?” Peter suggests.

“Sounds perfect," Stark says. "You pick the movie, I’ll order the pizza." 

And that's that.

\---

Peter dozes off halfway through the second movie. With Stark’s steady presence and familiar masculine scent enveloping him, Peter finds that he’s nearly as comfortable as he feels in his room.

If Peter were more awake, he’d be concerned about that.

But, he’s not awake. 

So.

Peter surfaces for a little bit as he gets directed to bed. There’s a distant awareness as he stumbles to his room with the aid of a strong arm wrapped around his waist.

As he curls onto his side and settles into the familiar cushiony softness of his bed, he feels something else -- the barest hint of warm fingers skimming against his cheekbone, lighter than a breeze dancing over his skin or the fluttering graze of a butterfly’s wings.

He sighs at the touch, murmurs a half-hearted _goodnight,_ and then sinks into a blissful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably tell that I don't have a beta. I just don't have the heart to subject another human being to constantly having to look over and correct my bogus. So apologies for any errors you encounter. That said, if you are actually interested in betaing and getting a preview of stuff before it's posted, you can always hit a girl up <3 But don't feel obligated! 
> 
> Oh!! And for my fellow thirsty thots -- things start to take off next chapter in a very specific, nsfw way, if you catch my drift ;) ;) ;) 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!!! Any comments or feedback is thoroughly appreciated, and I adore you all xoxoxoxo


	6. Abysmal Kitchen Etiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter makes bad decisions. He agonizes over it. Eats White Castle. Has a nice little chat with Nick Fury. 
> 
> He _starts_ to pull it together. 
> 
> And then, he makes _another_ bad decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, another late update, guys! Because the holidays only occur once a year, I have eleven months to forget exactly how busy they are. Just like always, they murdered me a bit. But, new year, new me! New updates! 
> 
> JK. Only the update is new. I'm still the same ol' sad kinky hoe. Oh well.
> 
> This chapter is betaed by the absolutely lovely [Feyrelay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay) \-- who miraculously is cool with combing through my dumpster fire and helping me put something remotely decent together. Usually, I do the combing myself, and not well at all XD She definitely made this chapter better for y'all. 
> 
> ALSO! Feyrelay made a beautiful [playlist](https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLE9IZM-jHkM-3X8FuXYocTisOHAkhy0-W) \-- Red Hot Red -- which is referenced later on in this chapter. It's amazing. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

Peter startles awake on the fifth morning, sweaty, aroused, and burning with the phantom impressions of hands all over his skin -- familiar hands or a stranger’s hands, he’s not quite sure.

Whatever he had been dreaming up until then, he’d been treasured by someone. Doted upon. It’s not all the various sensations of sex that get to him -- it’s that faint trace of a touch to his cheek, of a steadying hand to the back of his neck. The press of a warm body over his, and the humid warmth of a low, gravelly husk against his ear.

To feel so venerated is the headiest feeling.

Peter rolls onto his stomach and grinds into the mattress with slow, lazy rolls his hips. A spark of pleasure shoots up his spine, drawing a whine from his lips -- soft, but still loud enough to startle himself into pausing.

It doesn’t quite feel right to jerk off in the other Peter’s bed. It’s weird. It's impolite. He’s not that desperate.

 _Yet_ , his mind intones, ominously.  _Yet._

A few days, he can manage, but weeks without an orgasm? He’d go mad.

Against his better judgment and logic, though, Peter chooses to put off that issue until a later time. He’ll ignore it until he cracks.

Not his best idea, but he’s taken up avoidance like a newfound hobby.

In the end, he opts for a classic -- the cold shower. He switches on the shower in the other Peter's magnificent, tiled bathroom, and stands still under the brutally chilly stream, as if the piercing cold of the water can freeze and snap all his filthy thoughts like stray icicles, until they fall away.

If only it were that easy.

\---

His winning strategy to not jerk off?

Just like Peter imagined it would, it comes and bites him in the ass.

\---

“Coffee?” Stark asks when Peter trudges into the kitchen after his miserable shower.

Stark's morning presence is a striking contrast from the loneliness of the last three days.

Stark is also probably not a vision Peter should be greeted with first thing in the morning, just after he's managed to _somewhat_ control the chaotic housefire that is his libido. Sure, he's still burning, but it's just in _some_ rooms.

Stark looks deliciously tousled, wearing a threadbare Mötley Crüe tee that Peter is positive also exists in his own universe. The man is sporting the perfect amount of bedhead which drives Peter’s thoughts towards _morning sex_ territory.

This is probably how Stark normally looks to his Peter in the morning, right as they’re waking up. This is probably how he looked when they would lean in and share a morning kiss and sometimes more.

In Peter’s head, he’s always liked the thought of morning sex -- it’s relationship sex. Commitment sex. You could fuck anyone in any sort of a situation at night, but you don’t choose to _wake up_ next to just anyone. You don’t swap morning breath with just anyone. You don’t let just anyone see your bare self, unedited and unrefined after a night of sleep.

Stark would probably be the king of morning sex. He’d probably be perfectly sloppy and lazy. He’d probably feel like a heavy, comforting weight as he drapes himself over Peter's frame and slowly fucks into him with slow, unhurried thrusts of his hips, and he’d _definitely_ stretch it out so that they’d wallow in a haze of pleasure for as long as they wished.

If Peter were to --

_\-- No, Peter. Bad, Peter. Stop it._

“Uh,” Peter’s ears involuntarily grow hot as he forces those thoughts down and tries to rearrange his expression into something remotely innocent.

Stark is staring at him, though, one eyebrow raised as if to say _‘you’ve been caught’._

Thankfully, Stark says nothing about Peter’s momentary blunder, and Peter is grateful.

Instead, Stark diverts by offering sustenance. “Coffee?” he repeats, tone nonchalant as if he’s only asking for the first time.

Peter watches the billionaire push forward a second mug. It was...already prepared? And fresh, too, made not a moment too soon judging by the tendrils of steam still rising up. It smells amazing.

Peter takes that as confirmation of FRIDAY actively monitoring and reporting on him, which -- strangely enough -- doesn't bother him. Or surprise him. 

Besides, what could he possibly expose of himself that the other Peter hasn't already willingly shown Stark? 

(He willfully ignores how the thought of being monitored by Stark tickles at some latent, exhibitionistic impulse within him.) 

“Thank you,” Peter murmurs, picking up the mug from the island. Automatically, he maneuvers himself so his back is to the fridge. It’s a defensive position, and it helps him feel more secure.

Not secure enough, though.

There’s something dark and brooding in Stark’s eyes as he watches Peter clasp the mug between his hands.

 _What is he thinking,_ Peter wonders, and not for the first time, either. God, he feels stripped utterly bare when Stark looks at him like that. It burns, so _hot._

Last night, during the movie, they’d reached some level of ease. At some point, Peter had managed to illogically reconcile the burning tension between them with their timid sense of camaraderie. He’d finally been able to be around Stark without feeling hyperaroused and fine-tuned to every one of the man’s twitches and movements.

And that had been such a relief. It had felt wonderful, to not feel on edge for once.

Now, though? In the new morning? A lot of that relief is gone, again.

Peter swallows and looks down at his mug, but not quickly enough to miss the way Stark licks his lips.

“Well,” the billionaire’s deep voice seems to resonate through Peter’s entire body, “Go ahead. Taste it.”

Oh, right. The coffee.

It’s hard for Peter to keep track of anything when Tony Stark’s undivided attention is on him. Even though his eyes are lowered, he can _feel_ the brand of Stark’s eyes fixed on him as he takes a first, experimental sip. If anything, the feeling of Stark’s gaze burns more than the near-boiling coffee on Peter’s tongue.

_Delicious._

The coffee's been made with the exact amount of excessive sugar and tiny dash of cream that Peter prefers. It’s even his favorite blend, he thinks. The familiarity is such an unexpected comfort. “Oh, wow!” Peter tilts his head back and takes a long, sweet sip, and then finds himself rambling as this little, nice gesture makes him momentarily forget himself. “It’s perfect, actually. It’s just the way I like it!”

“ _I know,”_ Stark says, face unreadable, and Peter’s heart skips a beat.

_Oh, right._

Then, Stark advances.

_Oh, fuck._

Peter’s utterly frozen as Stark slowly slinks around the island and then towards him, one unnerving step at a time, until they’re facing each other with barely a foot separating them.

Peter can’t breathe. He’s aware that he’s trapped -- hard, solid fridge behind him, and a smoldering doppelganger of the man he loves in front. _Oh god,_ he thinks, _I’m going to be devoured._

That indescribable dark _something_ still hasn’t left Stark’s eyes. There’s no mistaking who has all the power in this room.

To his horror, Peter realizes he _wants_ to be devoured. He’s helpless, completely at Stark’s mercy, and so achingly _hard._

A minute passes where the entire world stops spinning, and then, _finally,_ Stark shakes his head, plasters on a fake quirk of the lips, and steps back.

Peter isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or relieved.

“Enjoy your coffee,” Stark says, voice deep and low and _oh so rich_ , and then he turns and strides out of the kitchen.

Peter does.

Enjoy it, that is.

He drains his coffee in one long, thirsty gulp, slams the mug onto the counter, and then turns and presses his forehead against the fridge with a pained groan, desperately willing his erection to die down. The heat of the coffee slips lower and lower -- throat to esophagus to stomach -- until it's overwhelmed and snuffed out by the scorching arousal in his lower belly. 

Minutes pass, and it doesn’t. It stays, hard and unyielding, through deep breaths and his failed attempts to clear his head.

He _could_ pull up the one trick he knows works -- he could step back into that deathspace like taking steps into an inky black pool, but he’s just _so tired_ of that. The barely contained trauma is bad enough already, even without him constantly dragging those thoughts forward.

He’d done that to himself yesterday, felt like utter shit, and finally gave in. He'd let himself enjoy Stark’s company in the end.

And it had been glorious.

After that strange sense of comfort and calm, he can’t quite find the resolve in himself to dredge up what he needs to dredge up. He doesn't want to fall back into the purgatorial embrace of denying himself in such a self-flagellating way. 

He’s out of options, so to say.

His arousal won’t diminish, he can’t clear his mind, almost nothing can effectively distract him; he _refuses_ to willingly linger on his darkest thoughts -- not when they already plague him. So, that leaves him one thing.

Fuck.

 _I was right,_  Peter thinks, _I'm finally going to lose it. T_ _his is how I go mad._

Rebelliously, his right hand slides down the flat expanse of his belly until it reaches the waistband of his sweats. Ignoring the warning sirens in his brain, he slips his fingers between the waistband of his sweats and the goose-bumped skin of his belly, knowing full well that he’s blazing right past a line he drew for himself.

A line he'd committed himself to respecting.

He slides his hands further, fingers brushing up against the base of his aching cock. After days of a self-imposed masturbation ban, that simple touch is like being zapped with sparks of electricity.

He’s sick and tired of the line, Peter decides. He’s sick and tired of worrying about anything and everything, of restraining himself so vigorously when his present situation is already so difficult. Stark is right -- he should let loose a bit. There’s nobody else around to judge him by himself.

_Fuck it._

Peter pushes his pants down, just low enough that his aching cock pops out, painfully hard and standing straight, precome already glistening at the head and beading up in milky droplets. The cold air hitting his overheated, sensitive skin sets off a full-body tremor. He’s so sensitized, it’s not even funny.

He takes his cock in a trembling hand, breath stuttering slightly as the clammy skin of his hand tugs against the over-sensitized skin of his cock. _Just a few touches_ , he reasons, _and then I’ll move to my room._ His eyes flutter into slits so that all he can see is how his heavy pants fog up the cool chrome. Slowly, shakily, Peter rubs his palm over the head, collecting a wet smear of precome, and strokes himself once, from base to tip, and lets out a strangled gasp. Immediately, he strokes himself again, faster. Then again. And again.

And then, some more.

He’s leaking everywhere, sloppy wet and squelching, and he wonders if he's so, so wet and practically milking himself with every touch _because_ he's held off for so long. Each movement of his hands sounds absolutely obscene, and the sounds combined with the warm friction of his touch send hot jolt after hot jolt of electricity straight up Peter’s spine.

He thinks -- about that dark gaze on him -- and feels a jolt travel straight from the depths of his belly to the head of his cock, angry and red in his grip. Peter feels more than he sees the blurt of precome that drools onto the floor in front of his parted feet. _Just a few more._ He fucks forward into his grip -- roughly, frantically. A whimper involuntarily falls from his lips, and _oh god,_ he realizes, there’s no stopping now.

_More, please, more._

Thirty seconds in and Peter’s already goddamn close.

Without warning, his brain replays Stark’s voice from Titan -- _Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’ve got you_ \-- and just like that, it’s over. Peter comes all over his fist and the fridge with a raspy, wrecked moan.

 _Oh, wow,_ Peter thinks afterward, as he tries to catch his breath. He looks down, and there’s so much white splattered all over the lower portion of the fridge. As he watches it slowly trickle downwards, he wonders if he’s already in too deep.

_Maybe I’ve already gone mad._

\---

After that … straight-up _disaster_ in the kitchen, Peter mops up his mess and hops into a scalding-hot shower.

 _Not good,_ he thinks, scrubbing furiously at his body as if a good, rough rinsing will wash all his filthy desires down the drain. _Not good at all. This is a terrible beginning. Ladies and gents, we are off to a bad, bad start._

What scares Peter the most is that this is their _pilot run._ Like, they’ve _barely_ interacted. They’re not even through their first week. They’ve had almost no time to develop sexual chemistry, and this has already happened.

That’s a really, really atrocious baseline that they can only rise from.

If a mere encounter in the kitchen somehow ends in Peter jacking off onto the fridge, he’s terrified to see what his future interactions with Stark will lead to. Clearly, judging from his dark and conflicted demeanor, Stark is toeing some kind of line with himself. Clearly, the juxtaposition between the two Peters -- himself and Stark’s lover -- is screwing with the billionaire’s mind. It’s hardly unexpected; one does not spend time in the vicinity of the alternate version of one’s lover without being a bit messed up about it.

 _Man,_ Peter thinks, _what a weird mouthful._

In this case, Stark might have it harder -- pun _wholly_ intended. Stark has already fucked Peter Parker -- it’s harder to backstep from something that’s already been done.

Something that’s already been _had_.

All Peter has, so far, are his years of built-up fantasies and an unfortunate kitchen incident. He should be having an easier time.

 _But_.

Peter is definitely losing it. If his lovely little faux pas in the kitchen says anything at all, it's that his self control his shot to shit. Besides, he's an impulsive teen to begin with. Still-developing frontal lobe, and all that. 

All in all, their situation is not good.

They can’t both be losing it, but they are, because what reasonable person wouldn’t be? And that’s going to blow up in their faces.

Peter towels off from his shower, disappointed but not altogether surprised that even though his skin is squeaky clean, he feels a persistent itch underneath his skin to seek out Stark and bask in the agonizing burn of the man’s presence.

He wants those dark eyes on him. He wants the attention. He wants that feeling of being coveted, of being hungered for by someone who’s indirectly seen him -- a version of him -- at their most erotically vulnerable. Some deep part of him craves the emotional turmoil; it's better than the emptiness of death that he can still feel the traces of.

_Jesus._

Since when did he become such a self-destructive masochist?

Considering that he has half a mind to get dressed and camp out in the communal areas of the compound, Peter skips out on clothing. If he doesn’t get dressed, he can’t leave the room, after all.

Sure, the thought of parading in front of Stark buck-ass nude is a _little_ alluring. Fortunately, he’s more than a little shy, still. He’s a teenager and a virgin, at that. He hasn’t physically been fucked by Stark, hasn't allowed anyone to take him apart and put him back together in such an intimate way. So even if the thought appeals, the execution is a little too terrifying.

Hopefully, Peter thinks wryly, it stays that way.

He lays back on his comforter and turns on his little integrated phone that Stark had given him, so that he can make private calls to May and anyone else. He dials the same number that’s been ingrained in his mind (he could ask FRIDAY but the physical routine of dialing is so nice), turns the phone on speaker, and tosses it on the bed next to his head.

“Peter?” May picks up after the third ring.

“Hi, May,” Peter says, closing his eyes in total relief at the familiar, motherly tone. He lets himself sink into the sound.

It’s like a bubble -- it wraps itself around him and dims out all the rest of his concerns, Stark included. All the problems are still there, but they’re _quieter_.

“Are you okay to talk?” Peter asks.

_Please say yes._

“Of course, honey. I’m just making some food, so you’re on speaker. And I have to leave for work in two hours, but you have me until then.”

Peter laughs -- and then he laughs more out of the sheer relief that for once, he’s not feeling the urge to cry about his troubles. Oh, that will definitely come back because of, well, everything (really, he should start making a list) but for now, he’s doing alright.

“That’s great,” Peter says rolling over onto his stomach and propping his chin up on his elbows so that he can talk down at the phone. His heels kick up into the air and he crosses his feet. What? His life has basically become a teenage rom-com-drama, so he might as well master all the poses. “You’re on speaker, too.”

“That's alright, hon! Is Tony there?”

“... No?”

“Where are you?”

“My room?”

“Oh, _I see_. Are you calling to tell me about your Tony problem?”

Peter barely stops himself from squawking. “W-what?” he laughs. He knows he’s not fooling anyone. “What do you mean?”

May says nothing, but her silence speaks for itself. “Okay,” Peter relents, even as he smiles to himself. May knows him too well. It’s makes lying impossible, but Peter will accept a lifetime of honesty just to have someone love him and understand him the way May does. “How could you tell?”

“Your voice did that thing when I mentioned his name.”

“That thing?”

“It gets a little higher. You know?”

Unfortunately, Peter knows _exactly_ what she’s talking about. And it’s not like he can control it, either.

He sighs. “Okay, yes, I know,” he admits. “And it is a Stark problem. It’s a very big Stark problem.”

“Spill.”

Peter explains, in as vague of a manner as possible -- not because he is afraid of May judging him, but because he wants to spare her the lewd details.

Okay, maybe he’s a _little_ worried about judgment. He _is_ kind of encroaching on May’s actual nephew’s territory.

But he’s trying his best  _not_ to cross those boundaries, and he hopes that's apparent to her. He hopes that’s a point in his favor in her eyes. At least he’s trying.

Besides, it’s _Tony Stark_ \-- plenty of strong-willed people have given in under less pressure for the temptation of Tony Stark’s time and attention.

“Oh, Pete,” May says, as he finishes awkwardly. (‘so, I’ve just been a little … _frustrated_ , if you know what I mean?’) “You’re being hard on yourself.”

“Yeah?” Peter asks, face-planting into the mattress in sudden emotional exhaustion. _God_ , he doesn’t give the characters in romcoms enough credit -- it’s _hard_. He now knows. He’ll never judge movie teens ever again.

“Yeah,” May says. “First of all, you’re a teenage boy, okay? Take care of your physical needs. Jesus, Peter. And don’t go out of your way to depress yourself just to solve that issue, because the actual solution is probably way more pleasant, right? If you needed to mow your lawn, would you use the lawn mower, or a pair of kitchen scissors?”

God, that’s embarrassing. Not _as_ embarrassing as the stilted talk that she and Ben had given him all those years ago when they'd caught him sneaking dirty sheets into their laundry compartment in the middle of the night, but it's awkward enough.

In a weird, heartfelt way, Peter appreciates May's willingness to boldly go into any uncomfortable zone for his sake. Especially after Ben’s death. And so, he groans and flushes red and buries his face into the mattress, but he says, “Lawn mower. You're right, May." 

There's a long pause, and Peter immediately knows that what comes next will be immensely awkward.

He's not wrong. 

“... Have you?” May asks. “Have you, uh, mowed the lawn? Cause if not, maybe you should get off the phone for a while?”

“Oh my god,” Peter blurts. “Yes, I have. It wasn’t good.”

“Wasn’t good? Do you need a doctor?”

“No. No, no. Not that kind of 'not good' -- just, bad circumstances.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh. Uhm.” Peter takes a brief moment to appreciate just how close and familiar they have gotten for him to divulge what he’s about to divulge to May’s actual doppelganger. “I -- uh. In the kitchen.”

There’s a long pause, and then May asks, voice hesitant, “Kitchen?”

“Yes. I, uh, got surprised at breakfast -- Stark was already there. And then I was alone. And, the fridge --”

“I see," May cuts him off. "That’s ... interesting.”

“Yeah,” Peter sighs.

“Maybe you should take that as a sign to take better care of yourself.”

Peter nods, even if she can’t see him. “I’ll try,” he says. “Thanks for being my voice of reason, May.”

“Well, someone has to. Stark is certainly just as much of a wild card as you are. Someone's got to make sure you boys stay alive and in one piece.”

\---

It’s not that he can’t differentiate between the two Starks. Peter _knows_ this Stark and his own are different people. Even if it can feel a bit Twilight Zone and disorienting, it’s not that difficult. He’s a smart kid, he can manage that.

What’s problematic is that this Stark is _hot._ In quickly reconciling how this Stark is different from his own Mr. Stark, Peter has managed to form a new, separate attraction to this one, who is -- in actuality -- distinctively different from his mentor. He’s starting to find that this man, who shares so many of Mr. Stark’s attractive qualities but none of the safety, is magnetic.

Peter can’t deny it; there’s this pure, unadulterated _lust_ that stems from their lack of a mentor-mentee bond. Because at the end of the day, this man isn’t his mentor. This man doesn’t have a nurturing instinct for Peter -- at least, not in the way his own Mr. Stark does. He’s not looking out for Peter’s interests in the same way, nor invested in protecting him in the same way. Everything is different. And that makes him dangerous.

After all, this is a Stark who met his own Peter Parker and then _fucked_ the kid.

(It’s crossed Peter’s mind before, and it crosses his mind again, that Stark knows exactly how he looks the moment he comes, how he looks when he’s desperate and begging for it. He knows all of Peter’s sounds, his strengths and weaknesses, his scent and his taste. It crosses his mind that by extension, Stark knows the dips and raises of Peter’s body intimately and thoroughly. When he looks at Peter, what memories and feelings come up? Does he look at Peter, a carbon copy of his lover, and think about fucking him?)

And all that is precisely why Peter finds him so… _stimulating._ This Stark is dangerous. He’s a wild card. He’s darker. It’s all incredibly, incredibly arousing. And the fact that Peter feels this way is really, really bad.

On the other hand, though, it feels almost vaguely incestuous in a way which is disturbingly titillating. This man isn’t Peter’s mentor, but he’s a physical carbon copy -- same voice, same eyes, same hands -- and it’s too easy to tweak his mental gears the tiniest bit and bring out that sense of taboo which comes with lusting after one’s mentor and father-figure.

Much to Peter’s horror, he’s beginning to realize that he’s found the concept _hot_ this entire time. It’s not new -- he’s just been too afraid to even think about it back in his own world because how messed up is it that he’s not only lusting after his paternal figure, but actually actively turned on by the idea of corrupting and sexualizing their father-son bond? That’s gotta be, like, _go straight to hell, do not pass GO do not collect $200_ level of fucked up.

The last thing Peter wants to do is pull a Bella Swan, but to sum this mess up in his head, he’s developed the following axioms like a good little scientist:

 _One._ For all that they have extremely similar universes, the Tony Stark of this world is vastly different from the Tony Stark of Peter’s world. Peter’s not quite sure how apparent that would be to the average person, but it’s crystal clear to Peter, who has become _quite_ well-versed in all the ins and outs of his own Tony Stark. Which brings him to the next point:

 _Two._ He is hopelessly in love with the Tony Stark of his own universe -- not Iron Man, not the rich billionaire celebrity and recent face of Tom Ford, but plain old Tony Stark who is a bit neurotic, very much a genius, has abysmal fashion sense, and is his mentor. He has beyond lustful, kinky feelings, as well -- quite frankly, he taken aback by the sheer variety of fantasies he has about the man. There are so many _things_ that look unappealing on paper, that, when combined with thoughts of his mentor, makes Peter feel hot all over. 

 _Three._  Feelings aside, Peter _needs_ Mr. Stark in his life. Life without his mentor is unfathomable, and Peter will happily keep his blabber-mouth shut about any of his more-than-friendly feelings under pain of torture, just to avoid hurting their relationship. It’s too important. He will happily carry this into his grave, if he has to.

 _Four._ He is hopelessly in lust with the Tony Stark of this universe. The man is wilder, is more dangerous, and is a Tony Stark who willingly fucked his teenage mentee who just happens look exactly like Peter. Furthermore, he has no personal or historical investment in Peter’s well being, because the man has his own Peter that he loves. And all of that -- the hint of sordidness, the lack of emotional attachment, the blatant wantonness of their situation -- presses an array of buttons that Peter didn’t even know he had.

 _Five._ He’s not sure how much longer he can hold out. Peter’s filled with so many different feelings and urges. There’s his growing lust. Then, there’s the logic that this is his one opportunity to be open about his feelings without permanent repercussions. Lastly, there’s a growing thirst for reckless abandon that he’s been nursing ever since coming back from _being dead_. Under the weight of all of those, he’s going to cave sooner or later without outside intervention.

What Peter really, _really_ needs, right now, is Quill. Or Strange. Or May. Someone who is not dealing with sexual inclinations towards someone who is an exact copy of either a) the mentor they’re in love with; or b) their missing lover. Someone to fence him when necessary, like a wayward, wandering cattle. 

No, scratch that. What he  _actually_ needs is to leave for the time being. He should remove himself from the situation. Stay somewhere else. Ask for a hotel room or temporary studio.

Or an Airbnb.

But that’s not even a viable option at this point, because Peter cannot bring himself to even contemplate that idea.

Firstly, he can’t imagine leaving Stark alone. But even more troubling is the fact that he’s way past the point of being able to pull himself away from Stark. The man’s too magnetizing. Peter’s too weak. Even when he knows he shouldn’t, he _wants_ to be around Stark. And that -- that’s just one more warning sign that they’re on a one-way trip to hell and about to tip over the big drop.

 _That’ll be fun,_ this thirsty little shit of a voice within Peter pipes up, and he resists the urge to slam his head repeatedly against the closest hard surface. _Goddammit._

What he really, really needs an intervention that nobody is around to give.

\---

Stark is in the kitchen. _Again._

It’s lunchtime, Peter is starving, and Stark is standing with his back against the fridge and the faint hint of a smile on his handsome face.

Peter wants to scream and tear out his hair. First, because the man is literally everywhere and that’s not helping anything. Second, because Peter had literally come all over that fridge not three hours ago, and now Stark’s ass is resting on that exact spot.

 _God,_ Peter thinks, _there is no winning._ Either he’s pathetically lonely without Stark around, or aroused to the brink of madness just from his mere presence.

Because of his sheer frustration, he nearly drops the bundle Stark tosses at him -- the red and blue bundle of cloth that has a _very_ familiar feel to it.

“Suit up,” Stark drawls as Peter fumbles with the bundle of fabric. “Put on some normal clothes over it, and bring your mask along; you can put that on later. There’s a debriefing at S.H.I.E.LD. in regards to your situation. Your identity is redacted, so you’ll need the mask on, but we’ll save you the hassle of wandering around in public as Spider-Man.”

_Great._

Peter looks up and frowns. “Can I eat something before we leave? With my metabolism...”

Stark smirks. “Exactly. Why miss a chance to be obnoxious? We’re gonna pick up food and eat it at the debrief, just to piss off Fury.”

Mr. Stark would have probably suggested the same back in their world. Peter has to bite back a grin. “Sounds good.”

“What are you feeling?” Stark asks.

“Uh. White Castle?”

There’s something inherently funny and awesomely ridiculous about the concept of eating tiny hamburgers in the middle of a very official government agency meeting, all while wearing a superhero suit. Stark seems to agree, because he looks like he’s just won the lottery.

Or, like, whatever a billionaire’s version of winning the lottery is.

“Perfect,” he says, clasping his hands together. “FRIDAY, find a White Castle that is en route and place a to-go order for...hmm. How about thirty of each of the classic sliders -- like cheeseburger and hamburger, and then twenty of every other variety they have? And then however many chicken rings they can cook in the time it takes us to get there, I’ll buy all of them.”

Even with the enhanced metabolism, Peter eats nowhere near that much, which Stark should know, considering that he is in an intimate relationship with a version of Peter Parker.

Stark explains before Peter can say anything, though. “ I’m feeling nice today, so I’m going to feed Fury’s little agents, as well. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents love free food because they’re on that government salary, and it will drive Fury up a wall to see his best and brightest walking around HQ eating teeny hamburgers. Also, he hates loud chewing, so _really_ gnash your teeth.”

Even with all the stress that’s he’s under, Peter finds himself laughing. Leave it for Tony Stark to go above and beyond when it comes to being a menace to Nick Fury. Not that Peter legitimately has anything against the former director, but he does find the man a little condescending and intimidating at times. He’s also omniscient in a way that’s quite unsettling. So, Peter’s always been amused to see his mentor unbalance Fury with ridiculous antics.

He’s more than a little excited to see what this Stark has in store for this meeting.

“Chew loudly, gnash my teeth,” Peter repeats, unable to keep down a conniving smile. “Copy that.”

Stark walks past him, claps him on the shoulder. “Good boy,” he says, which automatically hikes Peter’s body temperature up by several degrees. “Get dressed, meet me in the garage in fifteen. That alright?”

“Yeah,” Peter stammers, fingers pressing hard into the bundle of cloth he’s clutching. “Yes, sir.”

“Perfect,” Stark says, and it comes out low in a way that screams _danger_. He pins Peter in place with a look that’s equal parts analytical and something else. Surely, he’s figuring something out about Peter -- he always has that look right before he says something that’s uncomfortably on point to some deep, unknown part of Peter’s psyche.

But this time, Stark keeps whatever he realizes to himself. Instead, he just stares.

For far too long.

Peter fights the urge to fidget. What is …? Tony Stark has many different, nuanced looks, and Peter’s only learned more since falling into this world.

But this one’s a strange one -- oxymoronically caught between malicious and fond. This one looks like a daze -- it looks like Stark is caught in the clouds and sucked into a deep thought -- and not a particularly kind one. He looks … dark is the only way to describe it. A little evil, a little as if he’s wanting to _hurt_ Peter.

It’s a stunning look on him.

Peter’s heart pounds and his blood burns simmering hot in his veins.

He questions himself -- _What did I say?_ He tries to take as much of the look in as he can, so he can analyze it later, but Stark shakes his head once as if clearing out a stray, errant thought. The look vanishes. The moment fades away before Peter can truly taste it. “Let’s get rolling, then,” Stark says, with a shooing motion of his arms. “Chop chop.”

For whatever reason, Peter obeys without a second thought and scuttles out of the room.

It’s not until he shuts his bedroom door behind him and leans against it, that two troubling questions hit him.

_What the hell was that look?_

_Why was he so leashed by it -- and Stark -- like a trained dog?_

Once again, not good.

\---

“Nice sweatshirt,” Stark says when Peter enters the room. “Feel free to wear those clothes to HQ, as long as you keep your mask on. It’s my favorite band, so why not?”

“Oh, really?” Peter asks, glancing down at the shirt. He’d honestly just thrown on the softest one he could feel. He idly traces a finger over the ‘S’ of _Black Sabbath_. “Well, one of them, right? There’s also _ACDC_ , _Mötley Crüe?_ Oh, and _Led Zeppelin_. And, like, ten more bands. _Lynyrd Skynyrd._ ”

“Hmm,” Stark hums, lips quirking in an amused smile. “Looks like you know more about me than you let on, huh? You been keeping secrets, Parker?”

“Ha, no!” Peter chuckles nervously, even though he shouldn’t be nervous. It’s not like he did anything wrong. “You never asked! I haven’t been keeping anything secret!”

“Oh, you haven’t?” Stark asks.

“No!”

“Have you lied about anything?”

“No!”

Stark’s just teasing him at this point, Peter knows. The Tony Starks of the multiverse seem to universally enjoy riling up their Peter Parkers.

“Then, what was that blip about a cleanup in aisle four -- that’s the kitchen, just so you know -- this morning?”

 _Oh damn._ Peter swallows and tries to school his expression, though he imagines he probably looks like someone who’s glued to the tracks and watching a train come full speed at them. “Uh, I spilled some coffee,” he lies.

Stark makes a _tsk_ noise and shakes his head in soft, mocking disapproval. “I thought you said you didn’t lie, Parker. Naughty boy.”

Well, Peter’s learning all kinds of new things about his likes and dislikes, apparently. A tingle runs up his spine at the playful, false admonishment. It crosses his mind that he’d love to find how it feels to be admonished for real -- that time on Staten Island Ferry had felt like he’d stepped on a live wire, and that’d been _after_ he’d been wrung out by the day’s events.

What would it feel like when he’s prepared and wanting it?

He clears his throat awkwardly, trying to get rid of the breathiness he knows would come if he tries to speak. There’s just something about praise and admonishments when delivered by Tony Stark that makes Peter weak in the knees.

“I, uh,” Peter stammers.

As flustered as he is, the second and most pressing issue is that Stark _knows_. About the morning. Peter’s not sure what exactly, but Stark knows _something_.

“You got something to say?” Stark asks, deliberately goading.

“Uh, sorry?” Peter tries. _Sorry that I jacked off on your fridge, came all over it, and then wiped it up? Sorry that I somehow got caught and tried to lie about it?_

Stark winks.

Peter illogically feels the entire room rock violently for a moment.

God, that’s a good look. God, what a roguish wink.

Only a man who's been a rake for so long and conquered hearts everywhere can pull off such a look.

(Peter would definitely have been one of the poor conquered souls -- he’s trying not to be one of them right now, thank you very much.)

“Don’t be sorry,” Stark says, and then he glances down at his watch. “Let’s get going, huh?” he suggests, voice low and creamy-smooth. “We don’t want to keep Fury waiting. Or the food.”

Peter allows himself to be guided into the open passenger door of that one orange Audi, half distracted by the warmth of a hand wrapped around his arm, and half distracted by a chaotic jumble of thoughts over what had transpired. What had Stark just meant -- 'don’t be sorry'? What did he know? Is he saying that Peter should go and jerk off over all of the expensive furniture?

“Uh,” Peter asks, as the car purrs to life. God, even Stark’s cars are ridiculously sexy. “Can we turn on the music?”

_I might go mad and jump out of the car if I don’t get some distraction._

“Sure thing,” Stark says, and he cues up a playlist. “I've got just the thing.”

Peter glances at the title of the playlist and feels a flare of panic. _Red Hot Red_. If this playlist is the same _Red Hot Red_ that Peter had meticulously made back in his own world -- a playlist he only ever fantasized about ( _ahem_ ) _listening_ to with Mr. Stark -- then he’s going to suffer for the drive.

Just as expected, the smoky, filthy opening riff of _I Wanna Be Your Dog_ comes on. 

(So, he'd had Mr. Stark's more mature musical taste in mind when he crafted his little playlist. He's only ever wanted to impress his mentor, after all.) 

 _Oh god_ , Peter thinks, feeling his arousal get a jump kick as the first verse picks up. _'So messed up, I want you here,_  Iggy Pop practically groans, and the extensive sound system of the car makes it vibrate through the interior of the car. Unable to resist his curiosity, Peter subtly glances to the side at Stark, whose wearing a calm smile -- too calm. Purposefully calm. With his sharp vision, Peter catches the telling ripple of a muscle working. It runs, tantalizingly, along the masculine line of Stark's jaw, along that perfectly shaped beard, and Peter wants to feel it under his tongue.

Looks like he's not the only one feeling the pressure. 

It's certainly not a good thing, objectively speaking. And if Peter factors in the fact that Stark's apparent struggle makes a small part of him absolutely delighted? Well, that's just  _bad._

Worse, though? The playlist only gets worse.

He thumps his head back against the headrest, closes his eyes in a barely effective effort to stay composed, and takes deep, timed breaths.

“You okay?” Stark asks, in a voice which screams that he knows just how _not okay_ Peter is. “Need anything?”

“Nah,” Peter says, voice a raspy whisper. “I’m fine. Just drive.”

For once, Stark doesn’t say anything in retaliation. For once, Stark doesn’t use his authoritative allure to one-up Peter or make Peter play by his rules.

Even so, his smug amusement stinks up the entire interior of the car. That, Peter can’t escape from.

 _That_ , Peter doesn’t quite _want_ to escape from.

\---

Nick Fury in any universe is still Nick Fury.

There’s no other or better way to explain it.

He still has the eyepatch, and the leather duster, and that particular, unamused air about him which screams _I will eat you alive and spit out your clean bones if you give me the slightest reason._

He’s also just as detachedly thoughtful -- sequestering them into a private, unmonitored room so that Peter can take his mask off for a bit before he’s whisked off to some official S.H.I.E.L.D mumbo jumbo.

He is the perfect cold shower of water Peter needed after that car ride from hell. ( _Drunk in Love_ had played.  _Drunk in_  fucking _Love_.Peter's not sure how he's still alive and not a smoking pile of ashes ... which he will stop thinking about thirty seconds ago.) 

So all in all, Peter treads lightly around the man and regards him with the utmost respect and more than a little appreciation.

Which means, he suddenly lacks the willpower to make a show of eating his burgers, even though he'd promised Stark earlier. He settles for demurely unwrapping the sandwiches and eating them in delicate, precise nibbles. Even if he still looks ridiculous, and is probably a disruption. 

Honestly, just the concept of  _White Castle_ in a shadow government agency is a disruption in and of itself. 

Peter risks a glance towards Stark, hoping the man isn't too offended by Peter's change of plans. To his relief, the billionaire looks unbothered. He shrugs, seemingly satisfied enough with the simple act of having catered S.H.I.E.L.D. with fast food sliders. (Just like predicted, the are agents walking down the halls, munching on tiny burgers and ring-shaped chicken nuggets. It's brilliant in the most ridiculous of ways.)

Tony Stark -- any version of him, really -- lives for riling up Nick Fury. And he will go many lengths to do exactly that, and to encourage his compatriots to do the same. Peter knows that. Stark’s not ashamed of that.

And Nick Fury definitely knows that, judging by the exasperated look he’s wearing as he lets out a sigh and drops the file back onto his desk. “Fine,” the man mutters. The look he directs Peter's way says _I am electing to let you win this one_.

It’s a look Nick Fury only gets around Tony Stark -- one that screams that he’s going to just let Tony be Tony and keep his distance, rather than fight it and then have to deal with some chronic annoyance which would undoubtedly soon befall him -- a toe cramp, unexplained constipation, or some stray bug which results in a video clip of Gandalf bellowing ‘You shall not pass!’ every time anyone attempts to log into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s servers.

(Mr. Stark had been exceptionally proud of that prank, and Peter makes a note to ask at some point whether Stark did the same in this universe. Peter's willing to get that he has. And if not? It’s still a genius prank, and Peter likes to be helpful to funny causes.)

It’s a nice feeling to be regarded in such a way by Fury -- it feels like a rare victory. That, along with the barely detectable sliver of gratitude the man shoots at him -- clearly, he knows that Peter's not being as obnoxious as he'd intended to -- and the amused look that Stark shoots at him, pushes a heady warmth through every nerve of Peter’s body.

“I am going to make this as simple and quick as possible,” Fury says, “because my life is difficult enough without you pair of hooligans making it worse. I’ve got real issues to worry about.”

“Please do,” Stark asks, with a mouth full of chewed up chicken rings.

Peter snorts and then chokes. He barely manages to keep wet crumbs of bread and fake-meat from falling out of his mouth as he coughs.

Stark shoots him a quick wink.

Stupidly and impulsively, Peter shoves an entire burger into his mouth before he even finishes chewing, out of some misguided and preposterous hope that having a face full of food will both stop his choking and quell the blush that's coming on before it rises above his collar.

It does neither of those things. He coughs harder, and his cheeks go berry pink.

That makes Stark smile -- a little, soft, fond thing that is _ten thousand times_ worse than any wink, or smirk, or _smize_ (Peter sends a mental shout out to Tyra Banks), or any other synonym for a sexy look that he could toss Peter’s way.

A smirk doesn’t make Peter falter, melt ever-so-slightly, and softly sigh before he can stop himself.

They all hear it, too.

Well, _fucking great_. Fury shoots him a look that’s halfway between disdainful and sympathetic, and Stark freezes. His smile flickers, and for a moment, the man looks terrified, 360 degrees of white visible around his irises.

Well, that’s how Peter feels inside. That's fair.

“Focus,” Fury snaps, the apparent savior for the day. Never has Peter been more grateful for the man’s blunt demeanor. With that efficacious, brusque segue, they manage to lunge over that hurdle and proceed with official business. 

They go over the basics -- keeping the switch under wraps, minimizing contact with the outside world, and putting Spider-Man on hold for the time being. Strangely enough, they all end up agreeing on those terms, albeit with a generous sprinkling of snark from Stark's corner.

And then, Fury requests a private audience with Peter.

Even though Peter’s an adult and agrees without hesitation, the sound of the door shutting behind Stark feels like a stone dropping in his stomach.

“I’m not going to yell at you,” Fury says, as he turns to face Peter again -- he'd stared Stark down as the man left the room -- and takes a seat opposite the table. It puts them at an even level -- superspy to superhero, man to man. It settles Peter’s nerves well enough.

“Okay,” Peter says, keeping his voice steady. He tries to muster all his security and confidence and cling on to it.

“Of all the superheroes, you’ve been the least of my headaches, Parker,” Fury says, voice wry. “Sure, you’re on the same self-sacrificial bullshit as everyone else, but at least you don’t build world-destroying AI, defy the United Nations, or wreak havoc in countries where you don’t have jurisdiction.”

“Uh, thanks?”

“Don’t mention it. My point is, I’m not here to lecture you on something you did wrong. I'm just going to ask -- do you know what you’re doing?” Fury looks Peter straight on, then, with that look in his eye that’s impossible to pull away from. It’s an unsettling and intense feeling because his expression borders eerily on concern.

Unbidden, Peter’s hackles rise. “What do you mean, sir? I’m just waiting to see what Doctor Strange discovers, so there’s not really anything I _can_ do … ”

“I mean with Stark,” Fury says.  

_Oh._

The attempt at a rebuttal dies before it leaves Peter’s mouth, because Fury just plows on. “Don’t bother denying it or playing dumb. I'm not stupid; you're not stupid. I'm being straight with you. Besides, we all had to witness the Shitshow of Our Lives when those pains in my ass got their shit together, and man, I wish I could forget those months."

That pained humor brings a smile to Peter's face, even with the stress of the conversation.

Even as Fury continues in that same difficult subject. "Parker. I’ve known Stark for over a decade now, god help me. I can guess what the situation is like. In fact, don’t say anything -- just listen.”

Because Peter, at his core, respects the man who has faithfully run the world’s biggest shadow agency with a firm hand even whilst it was rotting from the inside, he listens.

“Be careful,” Fury says. “Take care of yourself, but _be careful_. You get to go home and start over. We don’t -- we’re left with what you leave. And I know Stark. As much as I hate to admit it, I care about that madman. You don't carry a thorn in your side for ten years without getting used to it. So, don’t fuck him up. The world needs him. And the man deserves peace, for once.”

“I will,” Peter says, even as his heart screams at him to refute everything the spy is implying. “I’ll be careful, I mean.”

At that, Fury's shoulders relax minutely. “Good man,” he says. “You’re as agreeable as I had hoped. I’m not saying don’t enjoy yourself. Do whatever. You’re both adults. And I don't want to hear about it or think about it. Just don’t have casualties, am I clear?”

Technically, Peter could argue that he’s not planning on doing anything indecent, but he’d rather not risk making a liar of himself. And it’s not like Fury ever allows his opinion to be swayed -- the man is as resolute as any mountain. So, Peter just says, “Alright,” and the moment passes, easy.

That’s the nice thing about Fury. He doesn’t linger longer than he has to.

“Good talk,” Fury says, and gestures at Peter to stand. “It’s time to let my monkeys poke at you, now. You’ll want to put your mask back on.”

“Roger that,” Peter says, pulling the bundle of fabric out of his left pocket. “Oh, and Director? Thank you.”

“Just don’t come to me for emotional support when this goes to shit,” Fury says. “That’s thanks enough.”

\---

Turns out, S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists are quite enthusiastic about their craft. Fortunately, the ones who are given leave to poke and prod at Peter are vetted thoroughly, personally approved by Stark, and not entirely unpleasant.

It’s also nice to have a buzz of human activity around him -- the constant movements and directions allow Peter to fall into a state of mindlessness. For once, he stops thinking. He simply is. All he has to do is take orders and let the scientists command him.

That stress-free haze clings to him for most of the car ride home, until Stark turns to him after parking and looks him over like he’s analyzing a machine. “You look tired,” Stark says, which is funny because _Stark_ looks tired and resigned. Resigned about what, Peter has no idea. Clearly, Peter's not the only one whose had a long day. Clearly, Stark went through some shit at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ -- shit that's forced him to think and get that weird look in his eyes.

Introspection. 

Contemplation.

 _Decisiveness._  

Just like that, Peter’s brain jumps back into overdrive again, wondering what Stark is thinking, what he’s resigned about, what he’d been busy doing all day. He wonders what big decision Stark made, that's still showing on his face.

Surely, Fury had similar words with Stark? Is it related to that?

Any trace of peace disappears within seconds like storm clouds dispersing on a wacky summer day, and Peter takes a second to mourn his loss of tranquility. He also realizes that he _is_ tired -- he’d run countless circuits and performed a number of physical stunts for the scientists. The day hits him, then, and all he wants to do is sit back zone out. “I am,” Peter admits. “You look tired, too.”

“I am.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Stark lets out a quiet huff. “Let’s get inside, then. The Audi’s nice, but it’s not _that_ comfortable.”

That’s agreeable. That’s reasonable. That’s not a risky suggestion, at all.

In companionable silence, the pair takes the elevator up to the penthouse.

No issues there.

But, _then_.

Their bare feet hit the plush carpet of the main living room and Stark makes an absurdly speedy beeline to the bar. He steps up behind it and then turns towards Peter, who hasn’t yet moved from the entrance. Stark's gaze, heavy and full of undecipherable intent, lands on Peter like a heavy weight, and Peter feels slotted in place. Held down.

He couldn’t leave if he wanted to.

“Do you drink?” Stark asks, without preamble.

“Uh, sometimes?”

“Are you comfortable with drinking?”

“I’m a high school senior. Yes.”

“Great.” Stark claps his hands and smiles, but it’s darker -- a little intimidating and commanding. Peter’s heart pounds in anticipation of what’s coming. With a flourish of his hand, Stark gestures towards the couch and holds up a bottle of something brown and expensive-looking. “Have some drinks with me.”

His tone commands -- not in a way which is manufactured or built up; it just simply _commands_. Peter feels automatically inclined to obey from the deepest point of his gut to the surface of his skin. From the very tips of his toes to the hair at the top of his head.

 _I'll have all the drinks with you, sir._  

That part hadn't escaped Peter. _Drinks_. Multiple drinks. That's a long time to be around Stark. The concept is both enticing and frightening.

Damn near irresistible, actually. 

Still, Peter pauses. Because, sure, he can be dangerously daft when calculating risks as Spider-Man, he’ll freely admit to that. But this?

This is risky. Undoubtedly. Unmistakably.

Also, it’s very fucking dangerous.

Peter knows this, just like he knows the first and second law of thermodynamics or Euler’s formula. He should run the other direction, while he still can. He should come up with an excuse to slip away -- lock himself in his room, where the temptation is less likely to get to him.

That’s what he _should_ do.

What he actually does, though? 

He nods. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why I just added the spontaneous White Castle thing when it has no impact whatsoever to the fic. I'm just simply hungry. I'm vegetarian, fully committed, but I've been missing those mini burgers SO MUCH lately. Including that and having Peter eat it like a heathen was cathartic AF to me, like watching a mukbang. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear what you think! Thanks for reading <3 <3
> 
> It occurred to me the other day that AO3 doesn't have a dm feature yet that functions outside of commenting. So if y'all want to talk (god knows why, but just in case), you can find me on Tumblr as Sbiderslut :)


	7. Campari Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They reach a drunken precipice. 
> 
> And then, they take a dive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a long time coming! There's so much going on that I'm not sure what to say at all, except that there's smut in this chapter, I'm sorry for the long time between updates, and this marks a turning point as far as drama in this fic. 
> 
> Once again, this chapter is beta-ed by the wonderful [Feyrelay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay), who had some incredible suggestions that make the chapter what it is! I made some very helpful revisions based on her beta-ing, so SPAG errors are definitely all on me! (Also, she introduced a super lovely/delicious detail/action in the smut, if any of you feel up to guessing what it is!) 
> 
> Oh! This part is so thrilling. So, Fey is so good to me and she made me a magical moodboard for this fic, which totally plays to my hopeless hand kink! It's absolutely gorgeous, and you can find it in the first chapter!! <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Peter’s fate is sealed the moment Stark steps up behind the bar.

It’s over, as soon as the man’s gaze swings Peter’s way.

The temperature of the room falls frigid, but only because Peter’s skin is suddenly so _hot._ His ears fill with a rushing noise and the space around him slows down and goes unfocused like he’s underwater.

Everything does, sans Stark, in the world’s most severe case of tunnel vision.

Then, Stark holds up a bottle and _winks_ , and Peter feels his whole body falling loose and heavy -- his socked toes curl against the cool, hard stone of the floor, and the air thickens until he’s not sure if he’s breathing anymore.

( _Right_ , underwater. It weighs and washes on his body in light whispers.)

“Okay,” Peter murmurs, agreeing for what must be the second or third time. He’s not so sure, anymore. Maybe he’s actually said it ten times and he’s gone batshit crazy -- he couldn’t say.

“Well, take a seat, then.”

Peter gazes across what now feels like a vast oceanscape, crystalline and blue all over -- leagues which lie between his spot by the elevator and Stark, behind the bar.

He takes a step forward. The charge in the air prickles at his skin and raises his hairs; there’s taut, oppressive tension, like that which comes before a storm. Peter imagines he’s venturing into a dangerous, dark tide, and Stark is his only beacon.

(Is he above water, then? What’s a word for when you’re already drowning but about to dive further down into a second, deeper sea?)

They’ve made their way to a precipice, Peter knows. They’re there, at the very edge. Something’s going to happen -- the edge will crumble away and one of them will tumble -- or both of them. And there’s no way to come back.

Peter takes another step forward.  

Deciding to get wasted together while there’s this weird, messed up sexual charge between them? They _definitely_ shouldn’t do that. That would _literally_ be asking for bad things to happen. It would be the equivalent of them holding a crate of shit and actively lobbing handfuls of it at a giant industrial fan.

So, naturally -- because they’re geniuses who make not-so-genius life decisions -- they do it.

Peter takes one more step.

\---

There’s something to be said for the way Stark works himself behind the bar -- deft, masculine hands expertly spinning bottles and sliding glasses around. It’s fucking charming. Sleek. Suave.

Sexy.

They start out at the bar. Stark gestures Peter to a barstool with a flourish of his hand that has Peter obediently trailing forward and seating himself. Each inch closer to the man feels like a life-altering decision for Peter -- and a bad decision, at that -- but Stark is waving him in, and Peter is powerless against Stark’s command; all he can do is gravitate closer and closer until he has the bar stool’s firm cushion holding him up, and cool stone under his clammy, spread palms.

Both of those sensations are grounding; Peter clings to them and shakes off threads of surrealism.

This is real; he’s real. He’s sitting at the bar and Stark is pouring him a drink. He reminds himself, several times.  

Stark, himself, stays parked behind the bar and plays a rather practiced bartender.

As the man works, there’s a certain finesse to him, a certain air about him, that Peter imagined he exuded at parties a decade ago. For a second, Peter blinks and he’s seeing double; he catches a brief, dizzy glimpse of the Tony Stark of the past -- the slick, smooth-talking, bachelor with an appetite he’s not afraid to show, to indulge.

More than ever, Peter understands the appeal.

Real or manufactured, women and men probably fell for the Tony Stark persona quicker than one of the valets could whisk away Stark’s Audi; Peter’s stomach seems to agree, if the swooping sensation says anything. He doesn’t blame any of Stark’s conquests one bit, even if he knows there’s _more_ to the enigmatic older man than some fashioned, playboy image.

 _More,_ which Peter most definitely wants to see -- so much more than what lies in the vintage media footage and accounts that Peter’s dedicated hours upon hours to studying. There’s an iceberg comparison to be made there, but comparing Tony Stark to ice is like comparing the finest of diamonds to a river rock.

If the Stark of the past had been _so_ seductive when wearing his sex appeal like a flashy silk robe -- if he’d been _so_ unapologetically and shamelessly indulgent -- then how much _more_ would he be in reality? How much _more_ \-- how _different_ , actually -- would he be, now?   

That unknown is more tantalizing than the sweetest of desserts -- or the tartest of gummy worms.

Peter wordlessly takes the tumbler glass Stark slides at him, because he can’t trust himself to speak. He’s not sure what would come out, but it could be something dirty and desperate, something hopelessly stupid, or maybe even a dreamy sigh that would be absolutely mortifying. He sips silently at the drink, instead. Biting sweetness hits his tongue, first, followed by an herbal bitterness which makes him unconsciously smacks his lips.

“Verdict?”

For a moment, Stark looks straight at him, and Peter just _knows_ he’ll choke or something. But then, Stark turns and begins to rummage through a cabinet, and Peter finds his words. Taking a soft, calming inhale through his nostrils, he says, “It’s good. Amazing. Is it a ....” He wracks his brain for the right name, and comes up with, “...Manhattan?”

With a quirked brow, Stark clicks his tongue and twirls around to point an approving finger.

Peter knows it’s bad when that tiny morsel of approval still tastes decadent to him.

“Close,” Stark says. “Good guess. It’s similar bases. This, my dear, is an Old Fashioned.”  

 _My dear._ Even though Peter fully understands that the endearment is uttered with only the most casual and magnanimous of intentions, the words hit him like a sledgehammer from a Looney Tunes. “O-oh,” he stammers. “Cool. Is it your favorite?

“I don’t have a favorite. I enjoy most things -- except craft beer. I don’t understand that, and I’m not a young hipster. I have some, though -- free promo that this local brewery sent over -- if you want any?”

“N-no,” Peter says, fingers tightening around his glass. “This is fine. This is great, actually. I don’t like craft beer, either.” _I only want to drink what you make for me._ “Whatever you make is fine. Thank you for this, by the way.”

Stark pauses and tilts his bottle a smidge back; the stream stops trickling into the glass and he glances towards Peter. It makes Peter question whether he’d voiced his unspeakable thoughts out loud, but he’s nearly positive he didn’t. “My pleasure,” the older man says. A pause, and then he resumes his pour.

 _My pleasure_. It doesn’t make sense to assume the alcohol has affected him yet -- Peter’s only halfway through his first cocktail -- but he can’t stop fixating on everything Stark says. The way _‘pleasure’_ rolls off his tongue is entrancing.

Now, Peter wants to hear it said in different contexts.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding towards Stark’s drink -- Peter’s own is a warm, rich amber, but Stark’s is an alluring deep rust-red that, if Peter thinks about it, matches the man’s personality uncannily. Stark takes a sip of it, and Peter can’t help but follow the movement -- how the syrupy-looking liquor touches against the man’s lips, the barest flow-disruption as he sips, the rippling of his jaw and throat as he savors and swallows.

Unconsciously, Peter’s lower lip finds itself tucked between the workings of his teeth.

His trance only breaks when glass meets counter again with a quiet, firm clink, and Peter realizes that Stark had been watching him the whole time. The man had kept his eyes open while he drank, tracking Peter as Peter had blatantly leered and grown flustered over such a simple motion.

_Ah, fuck._

Stark’s lips twitch, but he allows the transgression to slide. “It’s a Negroni. One part gin, one part vermouth, one part Campari. You want to try?” He nudges the glass forward in invitation.

Peter does. He carefully lifts the offered glass and brings it to his lips, gaze locked on the faintest imprint on the opposite rim. _God,_ how he wants to spin that side to face him and place his lips where Stark’s had been seconds ago.

But he’s not that far gone. _Yet_. So, he settles for the indirect contact of drinking the same liquor Stark drank from, and that will have to suffice.

It’s fucking delicious on his tongue. It’s sweet in a thick way, but offset with a sharp bite of bitterness, utterly opulent. Peter imagines it would taste even better to lick that taste out of Stark -- rich liquor drunken from a billionaire’s mouth. But, he doesn’t let himself linger on that dangerous thought for too long. “It’s delicious,” he murmurs, sliding the glass back towards Stark, careful not to let their fingers brush.

“You have good taste,” Stark muses. “Not everyone enjoys it. I’ll make you one, next.” With a flickering twist of his wrist that turns the glass _just so_ , Stark picks the glass up and takes a sip. It fucking _kills_ Peter to notice how the older man drinks from where Peter had drunk, but it doesn’t even look purposeful. It looks like happy coincidence -- and _happy_ it is to certain nerves in Peter’s body.

( _Does Stark do coincidences, though? Is anything ever unintentional for Tony Stark?_ Peter has to force himself not to dwell on that thought, lest he gets stuck and tumbles into it like an endless rabbit hole.)

“O-okay” Peter downs the rest of his Old Fashioned -- his mouth is so _dry_ all of a sudden. He knows the liquor won’t help, but he needs to drink _something_ to wash down the confessions which flutter in the back of his throat, like butterflies.

Or _bees,_ more likely.

“You might wanna slow down,” Stark warns, as the warmth begins to burn down Peter’s esophagus. “That’s nearly entirely liquor.” Even so, he matches Peter’s movement and drains his Negroni before pulling out two clean tumblers and a Campari bottle. “But if it’s one of those nights… _is it_? Are we getting shitfaced?” His face is wry, and his posture is braced.

Against all decent judgment, Peter says, his own posture growing stilted, “Yes, please.”

A white flash of rolling eyes ( _god_ , Stark’s lower lashes look even thicker and darker when he does that), hilariously sardonic. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

Selfishly, Peter thinks, _what’s one more regret?_ “Maybe?”

“Oh well,” Stark says, succinctly. He pauses. Licks his lips in thought. Smiles a wry smile. Shrugs. “It’s not like any of us get to avoid a mountain of regrets. Comes with the territory.”

Which is true.

Stark pours significantly more liquor than normal or acceptable, but Peter’s not complaining. Sure, there’s a raise of an eyebrow on Peter’s part, but he accepts the full glass nonetheless, which prompts Stark to quip, “We drink like men tonight.” A pause. “Or women. If you’ve seen Romanoff drink… let’s just say that everything they claim about the Russians is true. Don’t take her up on a drinking challenge.”   

“I won’t.”

“Good boy.”

Peter barely manages to keep from choking, but he does guzzle a fair amount of the Negroni which makes Stark’s lips quirk. “Thirsty?” the man asks.

“Something like that. I have that enhanced tolerance anyways.”

“Well, drink away. There’s plenty more where that came from. Just don’t make me pump your stomach. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Time passes where all they do is drink; small talk is not only awkward and dangerous -- it’s unnecessary.

Or, at least Peter thinks so. What could they possibly say to each other that Stark doesn’t already know -- hasn’t already witnessed firsthand in the most intimate of ways? As for Peter -- he knows a fair amount about Stark already, and he’s barely keeping a leash on his curiosity for more. If he starts to ask, he may never stop.

There’s no knowing what Stark’s reasonings are, but Peter himself is trying not to put his foot in his mouth.  

So, they drink in silence -- it’s not exactly uncomfortable, but it’s taut. Sharp. Cutting.

Peter both enjoys and is tormented by the atmosphere. Maybe he enjoys the torment? Or he’s tormented that he enjoys it? He’s not exactly sure, but hasn’t that -- not knowing anything -- been the entire summary of his life as of late?

In silence, Stark smoothly refills their glasses.

Slowly, the room grows warmer, tipsier. A tad hazier, in a snug way. Peter finds himself smiling softly as he notices Stark following in his steps -- dark brown eyes getting just the slightest bit glazed, cheeks warming up with a soft glow, facial features relaxing as he rests his hip against the bar, opposite and a foot adjacent from Peter.

They’re both drunk, then. No way to hide or deny it -- the Negronis are getting to them. Peter feels his lips loosening with each tick of his loud mental metronome (or, wait, that might just be his heart?), and he lacks the will to stop it.  

Stark speaks first, though. Surprisingly. He steps back from the bar and sways, the tiniest amount -- so small that only Peter’s extra-sharpened perceptions can catch it. “I’m gonna move to the couch,” he says. “You coming?”

 _Ha, ‘coming’._ Peter suppresses a cough with a hint of grace, and mentally congratulates himself. _Good job, you’re not a total perverted disaster, at least._

_Just mostly._

There’s still enough mental clarity left in him that Peter gives Stark a head start, to avoid getting tangled into the man’s trajectory. “Sure,” Peter says, and he waits a few seconds before trailing after Stark. He marks the space Stark occupies on the couch and seats himself a few feet away -- not extremely distanced, but also not close.

The TV flickers on without prompt to display a low-volume episode of _Friends,_ and the background noise of voices and laugh tracks settles over them like a shroud of tepidness.

“Y’know,” Peter says, searching for something to say to break the tension. In the difference of a few seconds and a move across the room, the silence has become stifling. His eyes land on the screen. “Phoebe’s husband? He kind of looks like the giant guy from Germany. Don’t you think? After he shrunk and took off his mask?”

“I’ve noticed,” Stark agrees, turning towards Peter with a quirk of his lips. “The resemblance between some superheroes and movie and television characters are _uncanny_.”

Just like that, the silence is shattered.

Peter sits up. “Just like you and -- ”

“Don’t fucking say it -- ”  

“That guy from _Satan’s Alley_ \--”

“You shut your mouth -- ”

“Who was in an illicit affair with Tobey Maguire -- ”

“What’s that thing I _just_ said about shutting your mouth, Parker -- ”

“And that _Tropic Thunder_ movie -- ”

“Oh my God, kill me now.”

“That’s what the priest probably said after he banged Tobey Maguire.”

“Oh, fucking Christ.”

“That, too.”

Stark’s eyes squint in playful indignation and he swats his hand towards Peter. “You fucking -- ”

\---

\-- far too many Negronis in, Peter finds himself resting his cheek on Stark’s shoulder and gazing up at the man’s face with what he can feel is a horrendous case of bedroom eyes.

“Tell me about the sex,” just slips right out his mouth, and _oh god_ , he can’t believe he just said that. What is wrong with him? It’s _so_ inappropriate, and Stark is going to straight up murder him on this couch. “What’s it like?”

It’s as if someone took away every last ounce of self-control and replaced it with a talent for word-vomiting. Peter literally can’t control himself, and if he’s honest, there’s a small part of him that _enjoys_ being out of control. That enjoys being scandalous in a way he would never have the guts to be while sober.

It’s exciting and edgy and so, so _bad._

To his surprise, Stark doesn’t murder him. He doesn’t even shove him off. The man is definitely drunk -- drunk enough that whatever voice of reason which normally keeps that unspoken boundary up has done fucked off and left him to fend for himself.

Stark lets his head fall back and _laughs._ It’s not a wholesome laugh by any means, but rather, this breathless, derisive type of snicker that sets off warning alarms in Peter’s brain.

“The _sex_?” Stark asks, craning his neck so he can look down at Peter. His breath smells faintly of saccharine liquor, same as Peter’s. “You’re going to have to be more specific. Which type of sex, and where? What time of day? What position? What roles and kinks? Who’s top, who’s bottom?”

“How much time do we have?” Peter asks before he can stop himself. When he pauses and adds, “Whatever’s dirtiest, start with that,” Stark’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Perverted little fucker, aren’t you?” Stark asks, sounding vaguely impressed. “I shouldn’t ask you this. But I’m gonna. You a virgin?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

“Ah.” Stark nods in approval and licks his lips. They quirk the tiniest bit, in a smug, knowing smile. “What, you saving yourself for your precious Mr. Stark?”

Having that question sound dirtier -- dirtier than it already innately _is_ \-- should be impossible. By some combination of Stark’s low murmur and the blooming of his dark pupils though, they manage to achieve the impossible.

Peter feels a violent shiver crawl down his spine, and he forces himself back a few inches so he’s no longer resting his chin on the man’s shoulder -- so his lips aren’t so close that another inch would result in a kiss -- because he’s almost to the point where he won’t be able to resist closing the deal.

Instead, he pulls back, sits up straight, and shrugs, desperately trying to quell the swirls of arousal awakening low in his belly. “Not really, cause it’s never going to happen. I’ve got no chance. It’s just… I’m not at that point where I want anybody else badly enough to, uh, _settle_ , I guess.” A pause, a brief thought. “Maybe in a year or two, though? That seems reasonable, right?”

Up until this entire situation, it had been impossible for Peter to even fathom sleeping with anyone besides Mr. Stark. Sure, he’s a teenage boy with hormones in overdrive and relentless urges. Without emotions involved, though, he couldn’t imagine much of a difference from what he could already do for himself. And even though it made no sense, just the thought of sleeping with someone else fills him with this strange sense of guilt and… homesickness? If the gods are merciful at all, Peter had hoped he would get over those barriers in the next couple of years so he could just bite the bullet already; he hardly wants to be figuring out sex at thirty years old.

It keeps him up some nights, even though he reasonably should have bigger things to worry about. What? He’s a teenager; he gets a certain amount of leeway to worry about strange teenage things even if he is a superhero. So what if he worries about struggling to lose his virginity because he’s so gone for his mentor that anyone else would just make him feel sick to his stomach?

But now, he’s looking at a man who looks exactly like Mr. Stark, except that this man has fucked Peter Parker before.

Maybe, just maybe, hearing an affirmation from someone else would help. Maybe hearing this other Tony Stark assure him that everything will be okay will alleviate some of the anxiety.

That’s not what he gets from Stark, though.  

“You already know what I think,” Stark says. Peter scoffs, and the billionaire quickly adds, “But I won’t mention it anymore if you don’t want me to. I mean, minus the talk we will have before you leave me because that’s going to happen.”

“Great,” Peter sighs, and then winces as he gets his forehead flicked.

“Hey, watch the attitude or I won’t tell you about _the sex_ ,” the man says, voice erotically authoritative despite the sarcastic air quotes he throws up. “And that’d be a shame because I really want to tell you about it.”

“Sorry, sir, I’ll be good,” Peter murmurs before he can stop himself. If he makes it through tonight, he’s going to give up drinking until he’s of age. This lack of inhibition or vocal filter is insane.  

Turns out, those words are the _wrong-right_ thing to say. Stark’s breath catches and he makes this low noise, something between a growl and a groan. “God, kid, are you trying to kill me?” The hand holding his glass tumbler twitches and makes an aborted jerking motion, as if he’s barely holding himself back from dropping it and laying his hands all over Peter.

He doesn’t want Stark to hold back, Peter realizes with a roll of the stomach. They’re already where they are. Stark is hard; Peter can see the tented fabric of those thin, black lounge pants, and the man isn’t even trying to hide it. He has one leg propped up on the couch, lap so inviting. It would be so easy for Peter to simply lean forward from where he is -- sitting on his heels and facing the man. It would be so easy to crawl forward by a few inches into Stark’s lap and rut against that mouth-watering bulge.

He wants Stark to grab him, throw him down, and just _take,_ so that Peter won’t have to make any conscious choice. He doesn’t want the guilt and homesickness he knows might come, but this is literally Tony Stark in a different form. If this Tony Stark were to give him no choice, were to push him down and ravish him, would that really be so terrible?

Peter realizes, with a muted, accepting melancholy that this is perhaps the closest he’ll ever get to the real thing.

What does he have to lose?

So, should he push? _Yes_. Should he grab this precious opportunity before it’s gone forever? _Yes_. Every thought in his brain is leaning towards a resounding _‘yes’_. Hell, four days ago, he was _dead._ Half the universe was dead. Before that, his parents had died and so had Ben. He had been bitten by a mutant spider, and life made itself perfectly clear that it wasn’t going to wait around for Peter Parker.

If there’s one thing Peter knows, it’s that if he wants something good, he’ll have to grab it for himself, because nobody’s going to serve it for him.

 _Are you trying to kill me,_ Stark had asked. Peter shrugs and licks his lips, flutters his eyelashes. He lets the pitchy breathiness show in his voice -- not faked at all, but simply unrestrained for once. “Kill you?” he asks, “No. Drive you crazy? Yes.”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re driving me crazy.”

“How so?”

Is it possible to be devoured by someone’s gaze alone? Because it feels like he’s being swallowed whole by the darkness in Stark’s eyes. The man looks positively wild -- one push away from going rabid.

And Peter wants to be torn apart.

“You know what I did when you left the kitchen this morning,” Peter says. “So do you even have to ask?” Stark knows _something,_ at the very least, judging by his snarks in the early afternoon. Stark can probably guess, being the genius he is. Then, whatever footage he has of the compound would only back up his hypothesis.

If Peter were even the slightest bit more sober, he’d be mortified at the very idea. At this level of intoxication, though, the idea of being caught doing something so naughty feels _hot._

He wants to be bad. Moreso, Peter wants Stark to know just how _bad_ he is. Wants Stark to look at him and see the filthy parts of him he wouldn’t normally show, wants to pretend it’s _Mr. Stark_ who’s finding out just how much of a dirty, dirty boy his mentee actually is.

But, not entirely. Peter _also_ wants a Stark who already _knows_.

He wants _both_ of them.

His cock jumps from simply aroused to an unforgiving full-mast at that dissonance.

“I want to hear you say it,” Stark murmurs, his lips barely an inch from Peter’s -- once again. Oh god, when did they get so close? It’s like with every uttered word, they’re just shifting a little bit closer. How many words do they have left, before it’s skin on skin?

“I touched myself,” Peter whispers.

“Oh?” Stark asks. The lilt in his tone is teasing and belittling, condescending in a way that makes Peter’s heart pound. “And?”

“I… came all over the fridge.”

“Naughty boy,” Stark murmurs, and Peter can’t help the way his breath tellingly hitches, nor the way his face flushes. “You like that, don’t you? Do you want your dear Mr. Stark to be your _Daddy_? Is that what you were thinking about this morning when you painted my fridge with your come like the nasty boy that you are?”

_Oh god, oh god, what is happening?_

Peter whines, and his hips rock against empty air, even as he’s sitting on his heels. “No,” he pants, “Not him.”

He really hadn’t been, then. As he’d desecrated the kitchen, he hadn’t been thinking about his mentor whom he loves with all his heart, who has done so much for him. Who, in Peter's fantasies, looks at him with adoration and touches him as if he’s the most precious thing. No, his tastes this morning ran much darker.

“Who, then?” Stark asks, looking like he already knows the answer. His breath dances across Peter’s lips, and their noses are mere millimeters away from touching. Up close like this, Peter can count every one of Stark’s thick, long lashes. He can nearly see every act of debauchery the man has in mind dancing behind those dark, dark eyes.  

Stark isn’t even touching him, and Peter’s already on fire.    

“... _You,_ ” Peter whispers.

He catches the exact moment that something in Stark snaps, sees the breaking of something in the billionaire’s blown pupils, and then the man pounces.

Stark doesn’t even bother with Peter’s upper half. Instead, he just yanks Peter’s legs right out from underneath him and _drags_ him in like a caveman. It’s rough and demeaning, and Peter should not be this turned on from being manhandled like a rag doll.

Peter lands hard on his back, and his shirt rides up as he’s yanked underneath the man by his thighs. Before Peter can fully react, firm hands encircle his wrists and pin them high above his head.

“Look at you,” Stark murmurs. He squeezes Peter’s wrists -- tightly, pointedly -- and Peter _knows_ ; he keeps his wrists still and crossed above his head even as Stark lets go -- even as the older man sits back to take in the view.

It crosses his mind that Stark is used to this. He’s a pro. He knows how to flawlessly guide and play Peter Parker like a fine-tuned machine.

Hell, Stark probably authored the instructional manual.

Stark brazenly lets his gaze drag down the length of Peter’s body, licking his lips as he lingers briefly on the pale expanse where Peter’s shirt has hiked up. That burning gaze turns absolutely devious as he pauses at the obvious tenting of Peter’s flannel pants. “Is that all for me?” he asks, tone teasing.

“Yes,” Peter slurs, “Yes, sir, all for you.”

Stark leans in again, lips hovering so close that Peter’s positive the man can feel his words more than he can hear them. All it would take is the slightest movement, but Peter’s hesitant. Everything else can be attributed to lust, but kissing someone? That’s quite intimate, isn’t it?  

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Stark says, as if reading Peter’s mind. “Even as tempting as you are, looking like this, all spread out for me.”

It should be a disappointment that he won’t get a kiss, but Peter can’t bring himself to care -- not when Stark is seconds away from wrecking him regardless. “Then what will you do to me?” he finds himself asking.

Peter gets his answer soon enough; one of the billionaire’s legs wedges its way between Peter’s. Stark’s knee digs into the cushion, and Peter finds his aching cock pressed tight against a firm, muscular thigh.

“You want to get off?” Stark rasps, flexing just _so_. Peter can feel the muscles ripple against his dick. His hips twitch helplessly, and he whines low in his throat, hoarse with neediness. “Go ahead,” Stark says with a dark chuckle. “Get off. Let me see you.”  

 _Happy to,_ Peter thinks. But when he moves to bring his hands back down, Stark’s clicks his tongue. Roughly, the older man wraps a hand back around Peter’s wrists and pushes them further back into the cushion, so that the angle pulls at the joints of Peter’s shoulder in a stretch that’s just short of painful. “Nuh-uh,” Stark murmurs. “No hands. Just…” he shifts his leg just enough that another choked whine falls from Peter’s parted lips. “Like this. Grind on me.”

That’s the only permission Peter needs before he’s unashamedly rutting up against the billionaire’s leg. The catch of firm muscle against his aching cock is barely enough, but it’s so, so _good._ Each frantic roll of his hips sends sparks shooting up Peter’s spine and his eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the pleasure.

Peter bites down hard on his lip, thinking that if he doesn’t, he’ll surely scream, but then a warm hand is cupping at his jaw. He blinks his eyes back open and sees Stark leaning over him, licking his lips like a wolf.

“Don’t do that,” Stark says, using his free hand to pry Peter’s lower lip out from between his teeth. “I want to hear you.” The words are punctuated by a firm shift of Stark’s leg, and with his lips held open by the billionaire’s hands, Peter can’t stop the loud, gasping moan that falls out. “Yes, that’s it,” Stark praises, “Let me hear you.”

Stark’s thumb is practically shoved into Peter’s mouth; all the sounds Peter had been keeping back come tumbling out -- little gasps and moans and whimpers that jump in his throat like popping candy. “F-fuck,” he whimpers, and is rewarded with a little more pressure applied where he needs it most.

The entire situation is surreal -- he’s rubbing his cock against Tony Stark’s _thigh_. His wrists are pinned by that same hand which created clean energy and super suits and a _brand new element_. Tony Stark’s face is inches away from him, and the man’s discerning gaze is fixed on Peter with a studious intensity, expression close to fully feral, a tuft of hair hanging down his forehead, soft lips parted so that a peek of tongue is visible.

 _Tony fucking Stark_.

Peter comes, embarrassingly fast. His hips stutter, snap forward, and that’s it. He groans, long and loud and wrecked, as his back arches with the force of his orgasm.

The hand around his wrists tightens. “Yeah, that’s right,” Stark coaxes. “Come for me. Isn’t that so much better than my fridge?”

A quiet whine crawls out of Peter’s throat and his lower lip trembles as he rides out the tides of pleasure. “Yes,” he admits as a soft shudder creeps through his body. “Yes.”

“Good fucking boy.” That one firm, deft hand leaves his wrist and comes down to run through his hair. The other hand slides to cover Peter’s mouth, palm to lips, and Peter barely has time to make a muffled, confused noise before Stark is crowding in and kissing the back of his own hand. And _Christ,_ it’s actually impossible, but Peter _swears_ he can feel it -- feel Stark’s mouth working through the barrier of that hand in a forbidden kiss, feel the movements against his own lips.

And Peter? Well, he’d thrown all shame out the window when he came against Stark’s leg like a complete dog. In for a penny, in for a pound. He lets his eyes flutter shut and he kisses back, parting his lips to gently suck against the flat expanse of Stark’s palm, taking the time to drag the tip of his tongue along the inner crook of Stark’s middle finger. It draws a low grunt from Stark, and _that,_ Peter _does_ feel vibrate through.

For a brief second, the lewd combination of Stark’s crude praise and his not-kiss sinks in, and Peter thinks he just might get hard again. It’s a close call.

But then, Stark is grabbing Peter by the backs of his knees, in such a way that Peter’s ass lifts a few inches in the air. “My turn,” the man growls. He draws Peter’s bottom-half fully into his lap and then pivots forward, so that he’s hovering over, practically pressing Peter into the mattress with the entirety of his body weight.

With so little space, Peter has no choice but to draw his legs up, spread them, and fold himself in half, ass nudged firmly against Stark’s crotch and tops of his thighs lined up with the outside of his own shoulders.  

He watches, with wide eyes and a racing pulse, as Stark bears down and shamelessly ruts himself against the meat of Peter’s ass. This is a man who knows how to take everything he wants, without hesitation, without compunction. Grabby, greedy hands roam over the expanse of Peter’s abdomen, rucking up his shirt and dragging at the waistband of his pants.

Peter loses his breath when one of those hands pauses at the jut of his right hip bone, and a breathtakingly gentle thumb traces over the barely-there raised line of an appendectomy scar. “That’s new,” Stark murmurs. He stills for the briefest of seconds, and then rolls his hips again, with more vigor, less finesse. The rhythm of his thrusting grows more desperate, more erratic.

 _Gosh_ , it’s beginning to look like Stark might be just as attracted to these little, cross-dimensional differences as Peter is. “What else is new?” Peter goads. “C’mon, sir, tell me.”

“ _This_.” The hand at Peter’s hip snatches away and comes to settle around his throat, close to where neck becomes jaw. Coarsely, Stark tilts Peter’s head so that the side of his neck is exposed. “It’s clean. No mark.” He traces a scritching finger along the bone behind Peter’s ear -- the curiosity about said mark flies right out of Peter’s mind at that electrifying sensation -- and then follows that touch with his mouth.

Turns out, when Stark says ‘no kissing’, he only means on the lips, because he has no issue with wetly, drunkenly mouthing at the sensitive flesh behind Peter’s ear, moving up and down the side of his neck. “Fuck,” Stark slurs, between firm sucks that has Peter breath catching in a whispery gasp. “M’ gonna come. Fuck, Parker.”

“Come for me,” Peter murmurs, which is the most strangely commanding and filthy thing he’d ever imagined speaking to the man. To utter those words brings such a heady rush of subversive power. In a fit of inspiration, Peter musters his voice into the most honey-sweet tone he can manage, because if Stark can dole it out, then Peter sure as hell is gonna make him _take it_ , too. “Come for me, _Daddy_.”

Stark does, at that. He chokes out a noise that’s not unlike getting punched; his hips snap into the swell of Peter’s ass and his entire body shudders violently. There’s a hot, stinging sensation of _teeth_ clamping down against Peter’s neck -- sudden and unexpected. _Holy shit._ It draws a soft whimper from Peter, which morphs into a moan as an apologetic tongue quickly laves over the bite in a warm, soothing sensation, as if washing away the hurt.

“Sorry,” Stark murmurs, then. He presses a soft kiss to the bite. “Sorry.” Another kiss.

“S’okay,” Peter rasps, and he lets out a soft groan as Stark rises up enough that he can straighten his legs back out.

Stark sits back, sits on his heels, and stares down. At the messy image Peter probably makes when he’s laid out on his back. At the bruise that’s surely on his neck, the pale stretch of his abdomen and the ridges of hips -- one decorated with a faint pink scar. At the debauched expression Peter _knows_ he’s wearing, and at the wet patch on the front of Peter’s wrinkled pants.

For a long, horrendous, moment, Peter thinks that this is the breaking point. Stark is going to turn and leave. He’s going to go cold -- which Peter’s been expecting and dreading.

And Peter? His heart will crack a little, at that.

But all Stark does is reach to the side table and pick up Peter’s glass of unfinished Negroni. He hands it to Peter, and then grabs his own. “Cheers,” Stark slurs. He raises his glass, brings it to his lips, and starts to drink again.

“Cheers,” Peter echoes, head swirling. _What_? He’s not sure how he’s feeling, let alone how he _should_ feel. Some part of him is blissed out and numb. He pushes up so his back is propped against the arm of the couch, and brings his own glass to his lips.

Again, in for a penny, in for a pound. They’re already at this point; why not enjoy the temporary peace before his misdeeds catch up to him? Because they most certainly will.

So, Peter drinks.

Is it just him, or does the Negroni taste a little more bitter than it does sweet, this time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like always, thank you so much for reading, and I'd love to hear what you think! You can also find me on Tumblr as Sbiderslut <3 <3


	8. The Morning-After Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As expected, Peter faces morning-after regrets and a hangover from hell. Homesickness, too. 
> 
> On the plus side, he gets a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I know this is a super late update. My bad! I'll include a brief explanation at the end of the chapter. 
> 
> But here it is, and I hope you enjoy! This chapter is beta-ed by Feyrelay!
> 
> (Just a warning! There's hangover and vomit in the beginning of this chapter, if that's uncomfortable for anyone. The vomit ends around paragraph 45)

Peter blinks awake in what would normally be the comforting warmth of his own bed. To be fair, it _is_ comforting, except it’s ruined by the sharp rapping of knuckles against his door. The sound _hurts_ ; each knock sends splitting pains through Peter’s head and he whisper-groans before blearily rasping out, “It’s unlocked.”

It only hits him as the door creaks open and Peter Quill’s head peaks into the room, that he’s gross and hungover and not quite suited for company. “The voice in the ceiling sent me here.”

Fuck, even that soft tone makes his entire head throb, accompanied by a burning, piercing ache right behind his eyeballs. God, that’s the worst.

But all of that is overshadowed by a visceral relief at seeing the man’s face again, especially after how weird life has been lately.

Including last night, and _oh, wait, right._

_Fuck._

Yup, last night happened.

The blurred memories slam home like a series of freight trains.

Also, how in the world did he manage to shower off before passing out? Or, like, change his underwear at the very least? That part, Peter can’t quite remember. Everything truly disappears in fog around two Negronis into their, er, _second round of drinking._

After the _dirty deed_ of the night had been concluded.

And Peter’s not quite sure what exactly he’s feeling. First and foremost, he is disgustingly hungover and his stomach is churning like the ocean during monsoon season, violent and dangerous and stormy. He feels like absolute shit, both mentally and physically.

He _is_ absolute shit, to be honest. After what he did? He’s garbage.

So, maybe Peter is a bit happy to see Quill. That part is a fucking relief. But, he knows he doesn’t deserve that; not after how he and Stark behaved last night.

And last but not least, -- actually, _yes,_ the least, because this one is the actual fucking worst -- Peter is more than a little titillated by those memories.

Oh, and he’s gonna puke really soon.

“Quill,” he croaks out, because first things first. “Bathroom. Help me. Please.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the attached bathroom before desperately covering his mouth with a clammy hand as a sudden urge to vomit rolls through his upper body.

Quill seems like the type of guy who’s had his fair share of wild nights and miserable morning-afters. The older man takes one good look at Peter and winces, recognizing that green tinge and hunched posture for what they are. “Yikes, how much did you drink last night? C’mon, Buddy, let’s get you to the bathroom before you puke everywhere.” As he talks, he’s already crossing the room and hauling Peter up to his feet. With his broad strength, he half-carries Peter into the bathroom.

Peter feels sick as a dog; he just closes his eyes and lets himself be manhandled and then deposited in front of his toilet, because he’s otherwise immobilized by the waves of nausea which keep washing over him.

“Aim for the bowl, okay?” Quill says, rubbing a gentle hand through Peter’s matted hair. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna hunt down the kitchen and grab you down something to eat and drink. Fill your stomach a bit. That helps.”

“Kay,” Peter groans, already ducking his head into the bowl. “Thanks.”

“No problem, Buddy.” Another ruffle of his hair, and then Peter hears footsteps gradually fade.

He didn’t eat anything the night before, and he so, so regrets that now, because what comes up is yellow and liquid and godawfully bitter. Just the taste of it on his tongue makes him gag even more, a shitty feedback loop of throwing up repeatedly until it feels as if his entire body is trying to turn inside-out.  

 _Murder me,_ Peter begs. Morbidly, he remembers reading about a poor girl who died from a ruptured esophagus after vomiting too hard, and wonders if that’s a possibility for him.

Even over the noise of his own loud retching, Peter’s heightened senses pick up the sound of someone approaching. Except… _wait._ He hears two distinct voices. Two familiar male voices that sound like they’re arguing.

And there’s something else. This weird, creaking noise, like a cart is being wheeled down the hall. _Fucking great,_ he thinks, _more witnesses to my misery._

He coughs wetly and groans, imagining how tour guide would describe him to young adolescents in a seminar on avoiding bad life decisions.

_(And children, here on your left is Peter Parker, who drank his body weight in liquor and now regrets everything. See him. Watch him. Learn from him. Don’t drink, kids.)_

His self-misery is interrupted as Stark comes storming into the bathroom first, clutching a bundle of bananas in one hand and rolling an IV stand with the other. So _that’s_ what the creaking was. And also, why is every version of Tony Stark so extra? An IV stand? Really?

Peter’s hardly surprised, but he doesn’t have much room to be surprised by anything not with the wave of self-loathing which barrels him right over and drags him out to sea.

Seeing Stark brings on every ounce of despair Peter has, except each ounce comes with the speed and destructiveness of a gunshot. Each bullet -- a rough, sharpened piece of cruel dejection -- tears into him, sending him reeling with a farrago of gaping holes and bleeding slashes.

Whatever rapture Peter was feeling last night is long gone like dirt hosed off a window pane. Now, the full force of the guilt he managed to previously ignore up comes rushing forward to fill in the negative space of his emotional lacerations -- salt water in raw wounds.

Peter looks up at Stark with his stupid, gorgeous face and his dumb, dramatic IV stand, and feels his eyes tear up and burn as if staring at the light ring of a solar eclipse.

 _Emotional hangover,_ his brain supplies, which is not helpful at all because there are no words to encompass how utterly _wretched_ he feels. The tears, hot and fierce, fill his eyes and Peter ends up sniffling pathetically at the presence of the older man, who has stopped in his tracks and is now staring at Peter.

If only Peter could actually see the man’s expression, but his vision is far too blurred. Too wet.

“What’s up, kid? What’s wrong?” Concern -- concern that Peter doesn’t fucking deserve -- comes across earnestly in Stark’s baritone.

 _Everything,_ Peter nearly says, _everything’s wrong_ , but something gets in the way of his words. Oh, more vomit.

Great. Peter’s saved from what would have been the world’s most pitiful admission by more puke. _What poetic justice,_ he thinks as he rolls back onto his knees. _Here we go again._ He barely manages to get his head over the toilet in time before he’s violently sick again. As Peter retches in vile splashes against the pristine white of the bowl, he thinks that maybe, that’s what he is: grime that’s mucking up a different universe.

He’s fucking everything up, isn’t he? He’s forcing his way in as some cheap man’s knock-off of Peter Parker. He’s simply an imitation; he's nothing close to the real thing.

Through the nasty, horrifying combination of vomit and tears, _and_ the crushing weight of his self-loathing, he can still catch the quiet arguing as Quill, too, steps into what is quickly becoming an overcrowded bathroom of despair.

“Dude, what the hell did he drink?” he hears Quill hiss accusingly. “He looks like that girl from _The Exorcist._ I haven’t seen anyone this hungover since Drax drank all the Saurian Brandy we bought from that Xandarian outpost, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Just the standard array of Italian cocktails,” Stark snaps back. “And how do you even know what _The Exorcist_ girl looked like? You were, what, _eight_ when you were kidnapped?”

“Do I look like the type of eight-year-old who obediently avoided watching R-rated films?”

“Point,” Stark mutters, before he asks, “How’re you holding up, kid? The puke slowing down at all?”

Peter gurgles out a groan because thankfully, the puke _is_ slowing, but it’s broken apart by a loud sob that rips from his throat and echoes way louder than it should.

A horrified silence, and then Stark asks, “Are you _crying?”_

“No,” Peter cries.

“Oh, kid,” Stark murmurs, then, voice soft in a way that’s frankly unbearable, yet such an undeserved comfort. A soft hand presses against his upper back and rubs, firm and steady. “It’s alright. We’ll get some fluids in you and you’ll feel better.”

A sharp pain shoots through Peter’s chest because his own Mr. Stark has used that same soothing tone with him countless times, has rubbed his back in that exact same way as Peter had fought his way through a panic attack. It’s one more heartbreaking reminder, on top of thousands, of just how far away he is from home.

Even if he’d been preoccupied with his libido the past few days, there’s not a minute where he doesn’t miss his mentor. Even without any romantic feelings involved, Peter just misses Mr. Stark _so fucking much._ The sound of his voice, the wide movements of his hands, the way he indulges Peter and jokes around at the same time. His well-timed and brilliantly executed teasing -- always in a way which makes Peter feel good rather than bad.

How father-like the man can be and the way it does touch Peter’s heart, even if some nastily deviant part of him is also attracted to just that.

He just misses the man so fucking much.

Being hungover at the same time? Not great. And on top of that, there’s the all-consuming guilt which comes accompanied by this kind of silent, world-ending homesickness.

It’s not exactly like… He’s not sure exactly how to reconcile it. Eerily, his homesickness feels like a silent, helpless grief that he grew up too fast -- that he grew up just a little more through last night’s actions. Peter is getting further and further from the young boy who’d lay his head in May’s lap and let her stroke his hair during reruns. Or even, the wide-eyed teen who’d gushed over the tech in Tony Stark’s lab while the man watched on fondly.

His world is expanding, exponentially, and he sometimes misses the enclosed safety of a child’s nest.  

Growing and _becoming_ is the point of life. Peter knows that. He’d accepted that as he’d accepted death, over and over. But for some reason (maybe it’s the hangover and entire current circumstance?), the thought of growing up outside the purview of his family and loved ones makes his heart ache today.

“Please don’t,” Peter rasps out between heaves. Stark’s touch burns like a brand and Peter knows that if he lets that hand keep stroking at his back, he’ll go insane in one way or another. Hell, he’ll probably end up puke-crying for days. His throat is already raw enough as it is, and his head feels a single cough away from exploding in a bloody mess. His eyes are absolutely aching. How much can someone realistically puke and cry before their body just gives out? “Don’t touch me,” Peter begs.

The hand retracts immediately, to his immense relief.

“Sorry,” Peter croaks, “But can you leave me? Please?”

“Kiddo,” Stark tries, and Peter can’t stop the full-body flinch that comes at the sound of that voice. For the life of him, he doesn’t know if it’s because that same voice coaxed him to orgasm last night, or if he just really, really misses his own mentor, or some icky combination of the two.

It smarts nonetheless.

“Please stop,” Peter chokes out, and if he was crying before, he’s full-on sobbing now. It’s too much -- his chest throbs. His throat burns. His skin feels hot and cold simultaneously and he wishes he were anywhere but where he is. His heart is going to rip right to shreds as he sits in a lump on this floor, and he’ll fade into nothingness.

 _Again, again_ , a sinister phantom in the back of his head whispers.

“You are incredibly hungover,” Stark tries again. “I have an IV. Just let me hook you up and get you settled, and I promise I’ll leave you alone. Deal?”

The man sounds slightly hurt, as if he has any right to feel that way.

Peter’s not his mentee, nor his lover. He’s just an unexpected, temporary guest. Why the hell should Stark feel hurt?

Furthermore, why does that bother Peter so much?  

All Peter wants is just to be left alone so he can wallow in his wretchedness and cry, and not worry about how the edgier doppelganger of his mentor is feeling. Is that too much to ask?

Yes, apparently.

The world is very much _not_ on Peter’s side today, because Quill agrees with Stark. “Yeah, sorry, Pete, but you should listen to Stark,” Quill says, sounding so sympathetic that Peter’s reminded again just how much he appreciates the older man. “Just let us get you comfortable, and we’ll get out of your hair. Please?”

If it were anyone but Quill, Peter would snap. He’s sure of it. He’s hungover, he made terrible decisions the night before, and he’s far, far away from home in a way that’s infeasible. He’s so fucking lonely and he feels more like shit than when he was sitting on the Cyclone after Toomes.

At least that time, there was a sense of triumph in spite of his beat-up body.

Now, he’s just defeated, both mentally and physically. And he’s already been an utter trashy excuse of a human being, so what’s a little attitude and tantrum-throwing tacked on at the end? He’s already committed the bulk of his sin. He is sorely tempted to bitch out anyone and anything just to mitigate everything that’s choking him from the inside. Get it all out there.  

But Quill is _so nice._

So inexplicably nice, actually, compared to the edge of cockiness and dickishness Quill had exuded before they all, uh, _well_. The Quill who helped him after he woke up on Titan has been so noticeably attentive and caring. Peter’s not ready to question it because he’s starving for every ounce of _organic_ familiarity he can get. Quill didn’t _know_ Peter Parker before. They don’t have history. More than any other person, Quill is objectively _choosing_ to be Peter’s friend without being saddled down by any predetermining factor.

That’s comforting, on some morbid level.

So, Peter can’t bring himself to snap at the man.

“Fine,” Peter relents, even as the tears keep falling down his face. He turns around to face the two men, figuring it’s a lost cause. If these two want to stay and deal with his lame ass even when he gave them an out -- even when he practically begged them to not mind him -- they can deal with a little crying. Whatever. He’s actively deciding not to care. Or, at least _trying_ not to care. “But I want to move myself to the bed. Don’t touch me.”

“Sure,” Stark sighs, holding his hands up and stepping back.

Quill shrugs and does the same.

It takes a long minute with the two men visibly holding themselves back from helping him, but Peter eventually staggers over to his bed and collapses onto the mattress, face first. He lays flat on his face for a couple of seconds, basking in the soft darkness of the mattress, before he can practically hear swirls of alarm rising in the other two men.

He doesn’t want them to think he’s suicidal or something. He’s not; he has people to get back to. He has no reason to die. Sure, he’s giving his best performance of desolate, angsty teen, but he’s determined to get home. He’d rather not be put on Tony Stark’s version of a suicide watch. It’d be too dramatic.

Like the goddamned IV.

Like the goddamned IV that Stark had noisily rolled along into the bedroom.

So, Peter rolls over, putting in a ridiculous amount of painstaking effort just to get his head laid out on a pillow. His entire body is so heavy and sore.

“Okay,” he murmurs once he’s settled. His eyes remain glued to the ceiling. The tears still come -- he feels them falling from the corners of his eyes, dripping back into his ears and hairline. “Go ahead.”

Stark’s clear discomfort radiates off of him as he approaches Peter and gingerly sanitizes and braces the crook of Peter’s elbow. There’s as little contact as possible, though even that minimal touch on Peter’s skin burns so hot that it masks over the sensation of a needle piercing his skin and sliding in place. It’s nothing like that last time when Stark drew blood. _That_ had lit Peter on fire, sparked something alive in him.

Now, he just feels _finished_. Capsized and sinking with no hope of staying afloat. The water is so cold it burns and numbs at the same time.

Meticulously, Stark tapes the IV down and promptly sets Peter’s arm back onto the mattress.

It’s not the best way Peter could act; he knows he’s being difficult. He’ll probably feel terribly about it later. And, on Stark’s end, it’s probably creepily unsettling to stick a needle into someone who’s doing their best imitation of a corpse.

But it’s the only way Peter knows to cope. It’s the only way he remotely keeping himself from falling apart in hysterics. If he lays still and focuses on the ceiling, he can just manage to soften the hurricane of guilt and anguish swirling in his chest so that he can keep his head barely above water.

“There you go,” Stark murmurs, and Peter feels a coolness start trickling into his veins. It’s _nice_. Everything else around him feels like it’s going up in hell’s flames -- so scorching hot that it feels like burning ice -- but the mild coolness of the IV grounds him. Barely, but it does. When Peter’s peripheral vision catches the way Stark pauses and falters, unsure in a way the man rarely lets show, he focuses on that faint sensation in his veins to mask over the twinge in his chest. “Water is on the nightstand, and you can eat these bananas whenever you’re ready. Let FRIDAY know if you need anything?”

“Kay.”

There’s another long pause as Stark waits for something, but then he sighs softly and exits in a brisk movement.

Once the door shuts behind Stark, Quill approaches the bed. “Help you with the blanket?” he asks, and when Peter nods an assent, he gets covers settled over Peter. Meticulously, the man gently tucks the comforter and moves everything within reaching distance. The entire routine is so comforting, and brings the tears right back. “You want me to stay?” Quill asks, when Peter audibly sniffles again.

“If you don’t mind? But also I - I’m not great company right now. I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry. I’ll stay. Not a problem.”

“Aren’t your friends here? I don’t want to keep you…”

“We, uh, need a little space right now. Sometimes we all take some time alone to _deal_.”

“Oh.”

“But if you need someone to help you out, Mantis is an empath.”

It takes a moment. Peter blinks and thinks the name over, and the most appropriate conclusion is that Mantis is the bug lady. The one who put Thanos in a daze. “The bug lady?”

“Uh, yes? That’s her. You know her.”

“Why would I? We didn’t exchange names on Titan.”

“We-” Quill looks disturbed. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

There’s a long pause where Quill just stares. If Peter weren’t feeling so wretched, he’d probably be a little more worried. Whatever the issue is, Quill ponders it and then visibly tucks it away before calming his expression. “Nothing,” he says. “Nothing important. Just, she can help you out by making you feel calm.”

Clearly, whatever Quill’s thinking _is_ important; he looked quite disturbed for a moment. But, Peter doesn't have the energy to feel concerned at the present. He’ll table it in his mind and bring it up some other time. In fact, he’s not quite sure he wants to know at all. He doesn’t need any more complications. “Uh, I’m good? On the empath thing? Just, can you talk and distract me a bit?”  

“Sure thing. Want to hear some space stories?”

“That’d be amazing.”

Quill chooses to entertain with stories from his earlier days, of being a kid raised by Ravagers and all the criminal situations he’d encountered in his youth. It’s not unexpected -- Peter would hardly expect the man to pull out tales about Gamora and the Guardians, not this soon after.

Peter finds himself slowly losing bits and piece of time as Quill goes on -- the stories are absolutely riveting in a way that’s previously only been achievable through sci-fi. But then again, Quill’s experiences are straight out of a sci-fi novel. But he’s just so tired and ravaged by his drinking that he quickly notices he fades out and misses out on snippets of Quill’s stories.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, when Quill pauses for a moment. “I keep nodding off.”

“No, no,” Quill says. “Get some sleep. I was hoping you would, anyways. It’s the best cure for a hangover.”

“Stay with me and keep talking?”

“Of course.”

He doesn’t deserve it -- not after what he’s done, but Peter takes the self-serving route and allows himself to drift off in the soft, soothing waves of Quill’s storytelling.

\---

It’s completely dark out when Peter wakes.

He’s alone.

For a moment, he’s disoriented in that twilight-zone type of way people get whenever they sleep through the day and wake to darkness, as if the world has changed immensely in the interim.

But overtaking the eerie displacement of night is a stronger emotion; Peter is relieved.

Night, he can deal with.

At night, everything is quieter. Night is when he takes to the streets and fights crime as Spider-Man. Night is when he doesn’t have to be Peter Parker, just for a little while. Night is when he has a purpose which feels so much bigger than any of his personal problems, and there’s a solace to be found in that.

That’s not quite the case right now. He’s not vetted to go out on his own and he’s not in the city to begin with. Still, night feels comparatively better, and his hangover is gone. With all this shit rolling downhill, most of it of his own doing, Peter will take what positives he can get.

Someone had taken away the IV while he was sleeping. Probably Stark, and Peter has to forcefully divert himself from dwelling on that thought -- it’s equal parts arousing and humiliating.

He pushes to sitting and grabs the glass of water and the bundle of bananas. The water goes down, first. Peter is so parched in the throat, and after he drains his glass, he sets it aside and peels a banana. He checks the digital clock -- 6PM. That’s not too bad.

Peter begins to think: technically, he’s not supposed to leave the compound without accompaniment. It's one of the safety terms Fury had set, because god forbid something happens to Peter and they end up having no one to send home.

But May had said she would talk to Stark about allowing Peter to visit her in Queens if he ever wished to. Peter doubts the man would disagree, but he’s not sure if they’ve even officially had such a conversation, since it’s not the most pressing of subjects.

Peter hopes so, though. He wants to see May. He wants to introduce her to Quill if at all possible, which is a weird thought, but he likes the man -- appreciates his unwavering support -- and thinks May would appreciate meeting the true MVP of Peter’s pathetic situation.

“FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Mr. Parker?”

“Can you let Stark know that I want to visit May Parker if that’s okay? And can you tell me where I can find Peter Quill?”

“May Parker is currently present at this compound. Peter Quill is located in the living room.”

Well, that certainly changes the situation.

“Okay.” Peter says. “Can I ask where May is located?”

“Boss’s quarters. If you would like, I can notify them that you wish for her presence?”

Oh, right. May and Stark are close in this universe, and they probably have things to discuss between them. Namely -- and Peter feels another sickening surge of guilt and apprehension -- how much of a homewrecker Peter is.

What happened between them the previous night was incredibly wrong. _Reprehensible_ , actually. Not only because he was intimate with someone who is the exact replica of his mentor, but also because said someone is in a committed relationship. And to step in the middle of that? Peter’s so disappointed in himself. This is not the type of person he ever wanted to be.

The thought of telling May -- and there’s no question that Peter would need to confess his sins -- is already scary enough. The fact that he’s accessory to an act of infidelity with her nephew as the victim? Peter might be ruining one of the few good relationships he has in this world.

The thought that she already knows is worse because Peter’s done a terrible thing, and he should have to suffer through telling her. It’s only fair; he deserves it.

But she’s with Stark right now, and undoubtedly already knows of his indiscretions.

Being spared the duty of telling her is a kindness which Peter doesn’t deserve.

“No, that’s fine,” Peter quickly says. “Just, whenever she’s finished with Stark, can you let her know that I’d like to talk to her? I’ll be with Quill in the meantime.”

“Of course, Mr. Parker.”

“Thanks.”

Something about Quill: it’s easy to recognize that he’s had a difficult life, more than anyone would expect when hearing the word _difficult_. More than _difficult_ could ever encompass, actually. Life has been a particularly shaky ride for the older man. Peter has suspected since the fight on Titan, and what little exposition he’d learned of the man’s history as an abducted child and Ravager just confirmed his beliefs.

Maybe the average person wouldn’t notice, but Peter does.

Peter, much like Quill, remembers loss, but he’s lost less.  

Even now, he’s lost less.

“I know you mentioned that you and your team often deal with things alone,” Peter carefully says, after he’s fixed up two cups of coffee and slid one over to the other man. Quill is looking somber this evening.

Many people have many reasons to be somber, nowadays.

“Yeah,” Quill admits. “Otherwise we fight, sometimes. Me, Drax, and Rocket, especially. We tear each other apart.”

Seeing the way their team had functioned on Titan, Peter isn’t surprised. That’s not to say that they’re not family, but some families are volatile and tend to fight, even if they love one another.

(They also don’t seem like the type of family to talk about loving one another, though.)

They both take a long drink of their coffees in silence, and the Peter licks his lips and says, quietly, “If you ever want to talk with someone who won’t pick a fight, I’ve got an ear. Uh, two ears, actually.”

“I - thank you, Peter,” Quill says. “I’ll remember that, but for later. I’m not even ready to think about it, but what can you do, right?”

“Do you want a distraction?”

It’s the least Peter can offer, and he’s good at distracting himself and others. He’d taken it on like a full-time job after Ben’s death, weaving circles around May that kept her from falling too deep into her despair.

Quill carries regret. The broadness of his shoulders seem to slump with the weight of lost opportunities. Peter doesn’t have the life experience to alleviate those; they’re far beyond him -- and maybe anyone at all -- but he knows a little something about desperately seeking as many simple joys as he can.

“How about a brief lesson in late 90’s and 2000’s pop culture?”

“Yeah,” Quill says, with a soft huff of humor. “That’ll do.”

And if a pop culture exploration also happens to effectively distract Peter in the interim? Two birds, one stone.

\---

They get along well enough.

By no means do they have a chemistry for the ages, but Quill is someone who either lacks intensity or has buried it so deep that he shows none of it, and Peter sometimes craves an easygoing presence who will mellow away his sharp edges.  

In this instance, they’re perfect for each other.

Undoubtedly, Peter still looks like a miserable piece of shit with eye bags and sallow skin and bedhead. There was also that entire breakdown debacle earlier, witnessed by a lovely audience of Tony Stark and Peter Quill.

But, you wouldn’t know that from the casual way with which Quill regards Peter.

Hours fly by as they watch movies.

“I still like my Zune music better,” Quill rambles over a mouthful of his Hot Cheetos and Takis mixture as the credits to _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ roll. Peter willfully ignores how the man refers to owning a _Zune_ , because that’s simply too much. “But holy shit these new movies are amazing. The new _Star Trek_ movies? I watched the originals as a kid, but these are just -” He makes an explosion gesture around his head with the appropriate sound effects. “And all the _Harry Potter_ stuff?” Another explosion sound, another explosion gesture.

Secretly, Peter is relieved that the new-age snacks and movies he’d managed to gather seem to effectively be drawing both of their minds off dark subjects.

And Quill? He’s fun to be around. For a space pirate and reformed criminal who’s had few friends and family until just recent years, he is quite personable in this setting. Peter’s grateful to be around him.

“You should take a set of the books with you when you leave,” Peter suggests. “The movies are good but the books are _amazing._ I’m sure there are some copies around here that you can take. _”_

“There are _books?”_ Quill’s entire face changes. “Holy shit. I’ve never really owned books before. I’m not sure how well I’ll be able to read them, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“Yeah, there are.” Peter has to swallow around a sudden swell of overwhelming heartache on behalf of the older man.

Quill is charming in a very odd and particular way Peter couldn’t put his finger on until recently, but he’s quickly realizing that part of Quill’s charm stems from an unconventional development. Quite simply, Quill was forced to grow up too quickly in all the difficult ways, but never allowed a chance to grow up in any manner a child deserves.

“I’ll get you set up with the audiobooks, as well,” Peter quickly amends, trying to quell his cracking heart. “It’s like a long song, basically. Someone reads the book out loud, and you can listen and read along with your own book. A lot of people prefer to read that way.”

“That’d be awesome,” Quill says. “I think the other Guardians might like it, too.”

Already, Peter is making note to track down the best audiobooks and novels. He may be powerless to fix most things -- dead loved ones, the bending of the universe, the mass vanishing and reincarnation of half of the universe, and apparently his own libido -- but this? This, he can do.

There’s a breath where Quill’s eyes flicker; he knows. He knows what Peter is thinking. He’s probably thought it to himself, many times. He knows how much he’s lost out on, and he knows what Peter is doing. “Thank you,” Quill says, and the magnitude of his words run deeper than the layers of the earth.

“You’re welcome,” Peter says. He truly means it like that. Like, even if it were the most difficult problem, he’d happily solve it, for Quill.

He’s never going to forget the feeling of being so goddamn alone on Titan after being dropped on his ass by Stark, and finding an ally in Quill. When there was nobody else, Quill had been there.

They’ll never be the best of friends, but they’ve forged something -- a precious type of camaraderie which initial strangers can find with one another, and that doesn’t need saying. They both silently acknowledge it, and that acknowledgment fills the air, loudly.

“Should we put on the next one?” Peter suggests. Let the moment pass; they don’t need to linger.

“Is it just as good?”

“Artistically, the style is drastically different, but it’s kind of amazing,” Peter explains, and that directs him into an entire discourse about the beauty of _Prisoner of Azkaban_ while Quill loads a disc into a player; the man lives for technological nostalgia even if FRIDAY can stream everything for them.

As nice as this reprieve is, though, it’s still just that: a reprieve. A delay.

And Peter’s reprieve ends with the coming of autumn in _Prisoner of Azkaban_ , when the volume automatically lowers and May’s voice says, “Peter?”

Both he and Quill turn and Peter’s automatically out of his seat and twisting his hands in a way that actually does nothing to help the horrible anxiety brewing in his belly.

This is it. He’s about to lose one of the few people he has in this universe.

“Uh, May! Hi! I - uh - I get that you’ve probably already spoken with Stark and he’s caught you up,” Peter starts to spew out, “So you probably know from him what happened and how I messed up so bad. But I want you to know that I would have told the truth to you anyways because I did a really shitty thing and you deserve to know the truth because you’ve been nothing but nice to me. And I’ve been absolutely terrible and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Peter,” May says, voice soft and understanding which makes him feel ten times worse. “I’m not mad at you.”

“But I’m a total homewrecker,” Peter blurts.

Behind him, Quill makes a noise as if he’s finally solved a puzzle.

“I - I know I look like your nephew but I’m actually _not_ your nephew _and_ I just fucked with your nephew’s relationship and I’m so, so sorry, May. I’m so sorry, And I’d understand if you wanted to punch me because I’d punch me and, like, even if everything is a little messed up it’s _not_ okay to cross boundaries like these, and I will leave the compound if it’ll make you feel better. I fucked up, and I should go and stay away from your nephew’s boyfriend and stop messing everything up more than it already is.”

“Hey, Peter.” A soft hand lands on his shoulder and in his guilt-induced rant, he hadn’t even realized that May has moved forward and into his space. “Stop. I’m not mad. Tony’s not mad. And we don’t want you to leave unless that’s what you personally want, Peter. Take a deep breath for me, please.”

Peter obeys.

“Good boy,” May murmurs, brushing a gentle thumb over his cheekbone. “And how are you doing, baby?”

It’s the endearments that really get to him. “Not so awesome,” Peter finds himself confessing. A few tears fall and he sniffles twice, but May unfailingly catches them all; she brushes them away with a soft, motherly touch that Peter definitely does not deserve right now. “I miss home, and I’ve made bad decisions, May. I’m sorry. And I kind of really, really enjoyed what happened --” he does his best to ignore the embarrassment burning at his cheeks, “-- and I’m sorry for that, too.”    

“Don’t be,” May soothes. “I won’t deny that this is weird, but it’s...complicated. There are mitigating circumstances. You’re young, in love, and in a tough situation. We’re not angry with you, just worried about you. Right, Tony?”

“Right.”

Apparently, Peter had been so out of sorts that he didn’t even notice their audience. “Oh, geez,” he stutters, unable to stop his body from going tense. “I - I’m still sorry, though. To you, May, and,” he forces himself to make eye contact with the billionaire, “…you, too, sir; I’m so sorry.”

“Not your apology to make,” Stark quickly counters, crossing his arms. “It’s on me. I’m the adult, I should have kept better control of myself. Besides, my boyfriend is a sci-fi dork so we’ve discussed… contingencies. Of all sorts. So I’m technically not breaking any rules on my end… But I’m sorry for messing with your mind, which I’m sure I did.”   

“Just a bit,” Peter concedes. “But it’s only a mindfuck because of my feelings for Mr. Stark and because I - I enjoyed what happened between us, so…” He makes an awkward gesture and chews his lip as the embarrassment swirls in his belly. “It’s just. Um.”

“Emotional hangover?” Quill supplies helpfully. “Uhm, I’m still here. And while this is very interesting to watch, I can leave if you want privacy…?”

“Please stay,” Peter says. “And yes. Emotional hangover. Exactly. So it’s not your fault either, it’s just shitty feelings being shitty.”

Both May and Stark look triumphant. Peter is baffled until Stark grins at him. “ _Either,_ ” he echoes. “So you admit that it’s not your fault, then?”

“Hey - I didn’t - I - ugh. _Fine_.” Peter relents. “Alright. Let’s agree to just not blame ourselves, then? If it’s not my fault, then it’s not your fault? How about that?”  

“Alright, you got me,” Stark agrees, throwing up both hands sarcastically. “We’ll just agree and call it a truce.” He glances down at the watch face of his sleek Jaeger and shrugs. “Alright, peeps, it’s 11 at night and I’m nowhere near tired and I’m starving because this day has been a fucking mess. And May’s starving, because she finished a shift before coming here to listen to my problems. And Peter’s starving because he spent a long time hungover. And Quill eats like a monster so I’m just gonna assume he’s always starving.”

“True,” the aforementioned space-pirate agrees. “I could eat a bilgesnipe right now.”

“A what?” both Peter and May ask.

“Ugh. You really don’t want to know,” Stark says. “I was going to suggest ordering in and having an impromptu movie night, if Peter-Squared is cool with us old’ems joining. May doesn’t have work tomorrow, and I’m not sleeping anytime soon.”

Peter looks at Quill; Quill shrugs as if to say _I don’t care_.

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Let’s do that.”

May makes her way over to the couch, but Stark? He sidles up to Peter with a concerned crease in his forehead and asks, voice so quiet only the two of them can hear, “Is this okay? If it’s not…”

“No, it’s completely fine,” Peter interrupts. _We’ve already done the worst. This is nothing. What’s a little tension and heartache?_

“Okay. Anything I can help out with?”

For once, Peter makes the mature decision. He sets an expectation, makes a commitment. “Uh, let’s talk later?”

Stark looks surprised, but not altogether displeased. “Yes, let’s.”

Their agreement drops in Peter’s belly like a solid, cold stone, but it’s one he feels he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Real talk. (Definitely feel free to skip over this if you wish; I just figured I'd put in an explanation about why I've been so negligent here because I'm a disaster.) There's been _stuff_ going on -- gross, relapse-ey stuff that makes writing and editing Starker a little bit grating on my mental health at time. But I keep writing because it's cathartic in some ways and it's how I cope. So I'll keep updating, I promise, because I want to get as much written as possible before Endgame comes out. But, the pacing will be very fucked up, I apologize in advance. This fic has a backlog of chapters that I've pre-written, but the editing process makes me spiral sometimes, which is why I update sparingly. 
> 
> That said, I so, so appreciate the kudos and comments I've received from you guys -- it genuinely means more than words can express to hear that people are reading and enjoying what I write. So, thank you so much for your readership and for your kind words, from the bottom of my kind of messy heart. You guys are the best 💕💕💕💕💕
> 
> But anywho, thanks for reading. I hope you liked! Comments are super appreciated, and the next chapter is coming (at some point!)


	9. Library Consult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a proactive approach, Tony and Peter have their aforementioned _talk_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 84 years, here's the next chapter. Thanks for the patience and encouragement, and I appreciate y'all. I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> A shoutout to my anonymous beta, who doesn't write in the Starker fandom, but has a fantastic eye for it: you da bombdotcom <3 <3 They're the reason this is coherent.
> 
> (Also, as a sidenote, this fic has been fully plotted way before Endgame came out. It will proceed completely independent of the events of Endgame :) Just pretend Endgame doesn't happen in the premise of this fic.)

What’s most alarming is how as their movie-watching comes to a close, all it takes is a single look. Stark looks towards Peter -- just a simple glance which lasts a few seconds longer than normal -- and they’re suddenly on the same page.

 _Stay_.

Quill stumbles off to bed, which is fantastic, actually, because the man could use some sleep.

May, ever so perceptive, gives Peter’s shoulder a silent squeeze as she leaves. All too soon, the soft tread of her footsteps fade into silence.

And then, it’s just them.

Peter’s aware that they haven’t been alone together since… _well_. Since the _incident_. It’s easier to refer to it as _that_ , with a purposeful distance which allows Peter to maintain the illusion that he has _some_ remaining semblance of agency over himself.

Impossibly, the _incident_ feels both far in the past and too fresh to the present. How could it have happened? How in the world did he, Peter Parker, get the fortune of coming undone under Tony Stark’s touch last night? How is this not some farfetched fever dream?

He cuts that line of thought off before it gets out of hand. Or, more out of hand than it already has?

It’s so late and the compound is deathly silent. Peter’s heartbeat pounds in his eardrums. Over the cacophony, he can sense Stark’s soft breathing, steady and slow.

Is he not nervous? Does he not feel how Peter is feeling, like he’d tipped over the peak of a rollercoaster and has been in uncontrollable freefall ever since?

There’s nothing to hold onto, either. He’s just falling. Falling and falling, hands reaching for something, anything, but it’s just a vast void. Except no, it’s not quite a void. It’s too colorful for a void -- stars everywhere, the rainbow gradients and clouds of distant nebulas and the shimmering wheels of galaxies.

‘Cause that’s how it is to be with Tony Stark.

And there’s a kaleidoscope of contradictory feelings to the fall -- fear and terror, yes, but also thrill, also exhilaration, and a curiosity to what he’ll encounter deeper down. Maybe he’ll fall and fall until he becomes a star, himself. One of many splashed across the dark canvas of space.  

It’s a romantic thought.

Stark, though, looks like his feet are flat on the earth. Stressed? Sure. Quite stressed, actually.

But still grounded.  

“How’s your hangover?” Stark asks, breaking the silence. He shifts in his seat, pulling one leg up onto the couch cushion to face Peter. “Still feeling sick?”

“No,” Peter responds. He’s sharply aware of their positions. Their location. It’s the same couch they…

Peter swallows. “I’m better, now,” he says, but it comes out so, so strangled that neither of them can ignore it.

He’s a mess. That much is a given. He’s made a mistake, and he’s floundering like a fool. Even though Stark had tried to mollify him earlier, he still feels guilt in the pit of his stomach, and so many random threads of different variations of turmoil which have all knotted together in his chest to form the clumped tangle of any knitter’s worst nightmare.

And like always, in a way which both frightens the hell out of Peter and makes him feel exposed in an illogically enticing way, Stark knows just how much of a disarray Peter is in. “Do you want to try something?” the older man asks.

“Uh. What?” _Try what_? Because if it’s anything like what they last _tried_? Too much, too soon. A subsequent round of emotional fallout so soon after the first would just permanently destroy Peter, beyond hope of reparations.

“No, no, not like that,” Stark backtracks, raising both hands as if placating a panicking creature. “I meant, let’s take this to a different room? The kitchen?”

The kitchen… where Peter had defiled the fridge. Peter hesitates long enough that Stark realizes, too. “Maybe not the kitchen. How about the library?”

The library is good. Neutral ground. Lots of books. An open space. A calm space. Isn’t there some statistic about how libraries are one of the most calming and mentally decompressing locations in a house? Or maybe Peter’s just hopefully spinning facts?

They could both use a little decompressing.

“Y-yeah, the library sounds good.” Peter nods, jerkily, and offers a pinched smile.

“How about you head down there, then? You know where it is? I’ll meet you in a few minutes -- I’m gonna get something.”

“Oh -- okay. Yeah, I’ll see you there.”

As Peter makes his way to the compound’s library, he silently thanks the older man’s foresight for allowing Peter time for a brief breather. Peter uses every possible second of the short walk to reorient himself -- as much as he can, anyway.

 _Look,_ he tells himself, forcing slow, cleansing breaths in and out of his lungs. _Just, trust Stark’s process. He knows you. Maybe that’s not always a good thing, but he understands you. Trust in that._

He lights a dim lamp and seats himself in an armchair, repeating it in a mantra. _Relax. You’re safe. It’s okay._

A faint voice -- not quite from his logical brain, but rather from the deepest, intrinsic part of his subconscious -- suggests, slick and compelling, _you want to trust Stark with everything, don’t you? Just let go._

The disturbing thing is that he _does_. He trusts Stark -- already, and far too easily.

Well, not quite. There’s _one_ brief moment where he doesn’t quite trust the man’s sanity, which is when Stark steps into the library, and Peter spots what he’s holding.

“Uh. Is that a Burger King crown?”

Not something Peter ever thought he’d be asking Tony Stark, but it’s an effective ice-breaker, at least.

“I wanted to try something.”

 _Oh, hell no_ , is Peter’s most immediate thought. _Not with a Burger King crown. I don’t even want to know what the hell you and Peter Parker do wearing a Burger King crown, let alone try it with you._

He has to forcibly assure himself that Stark wouldn’t likely suggest they do something scandalous involving a _fast food paper crown_ ; Sure, he and his Peter seem like they’d have their wild _things_ , but Burger King? Not likely.

Peter hopes. Desperately so.

“... what do you want to try?” _Please, don’t be a kinky thing. Please, not Burger King. It’s even worse than McDonalds._

Stark shoots him a knowing, wry look, as if to say _I know where your mind went, back there_ , but he keeps his thoughts to himself, which Peter is grateful for. “Peter and I do this thing when we need to have serious discussions,” he explains, settling down in the opposite armchair. “Whoever is wearing the crown gets to talk. No raised voices. No accusations or ‘you’ statements. No swearing. Simply state your case and explanations when you’re wearing it, and the other person has to actively _listen_.”

It hits Peter then, sadly late in the game, that Stark and his Peter are simply a couple. For all that one of them is a billionaire and they’re both superheroes, they’re still your average people in a relationship. Take away all the frills, and they’re people who still argue, people who still have differences, people who need tools and habits to navigate through the inevitable hurdles and obstacles which come in _any_ relationship.

This partnership is not all sunshine and rainbows, Peter dumbly realizes. _Uh, duh._ It’s not all burning passion and torrid romance and storybook intensity.

It’s _flawed_.

How Peter is only _now_ realizing this, he can’t explain. He’s been so stupid. “You go first,” he says. He can’t trust himself, at this point, to go first.

Let Stark show him how it’s done; clearly, he’s the only one in the room who actually understands how a relationship works.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright, then.” Stark actually pops on the crown, and if the situation weren’t how it is, Peter would have laughed. But Stark is dead serious, and Peter is ready to listen, more than he was before.

“First things first,” Stark says. “I have been negligent.”

Peter has to bite his tongue from verbally protesting, because it’s not his turn. He has one job: to _listen_. He silences his thoughts and focuses on Stark.

“You might think otherwise, but I’ve been letting you go around clueless. That’s on me. I didn’t bother explaining what actually happened with Thanos -- what the aftermath was -- and that’s one of the first things I should have done.”

 _Oh, Christ_.

 _Fuck_.

What even happened on Titan? What happened with Thanos? How had Stark been exactly where he was when Peter came back?

Peter wants to slap himself silly. How could he be so self-centered? He wracks his brain, and he can’t even recall who’s alive, outside of select people he has actually seen or heard mentioned. He has _no clue_ what even happened to bring them back, because he’d spent an entire week wallowing.

 _Pathetic_ , he thinks.

No wonder Mr. Stark doesn’t _want_ him back in their world. Peter’s self-centered, and overemotional, and he gets too caught up in his own problems and misses the biggest fucking picture. Why would Mr. Stark ever want a self-centered _kid_?

“Peter, come back. Look at me.”

It’s not until a hand, warm and solid, lands on his upper arm, that Peter realizes his world had blurred, that all sound had faded into the loud beating of his heart and a roaring in his ears. He’s panting for breath, shallowly, unable to draw much in. “Fuck,” he hisses, feeling himself start to unravel. Like he’s practiced before, countless times, he forces himself to take whistling, steady breaths through his nose until the edge of panic has faded out, effectively halting his anxiety attack in its tracks.

Of the many times he’s tried, he’s grateful that this is one rare instance where it works.

“Hey,” Stark gently tilts Peter’s chin. “You steadier?”

“Y-yeah,” Peter stutters. “That was close. I’m alright, though.”

“Good.” Another searching look in Peter’s eyes, chocolate to chestnut; Stark strokes at Peter’s cheek with his thumb, just once -- a dry brush of rough against soft. “You, too, huh? Did it start after Toomes?”

“Yeah. You taught me how to deal with it.”

“Well, you did good. That was good.”

“Thanks.”

There’s a long pause, then. Stark cups Peter’s jaw, warm and steady, and his thumb unconsciously strokes against Peter’s skin, and Peter can’t help it, not when he’s being touched like that; his eyelashes flutter and he lets out the softest of sighs.

It’s not sexual, _right_? He ponders, and decides it’s more about physical comfort at this point, though there’ll always be an undertone of sexuality to anything they do, most likely. But in this case, the physical comfort outweighs the rest.  

“Will this help?” Stark asks, voice low. “Will my touching you help?”

God help him, but, “Yes.”

“Okay,” Stark agrees, untroubled. “Budge over.” Unapologetically, as if there’s no issue with their position, he squeezes into Peter’s armchair so they’re crushed together, side to side. “No funny business, I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter echoes. Then, as an afterthought, “I promise, too.”

“Great. Perfect. This feel alright? I’m not squishing you?”

Peter glances at the tilted crown on Stark’s head and this time, he snorts. “Yes, you’re fine.”

“See? Better already. The crown is meant to be funny.” As he speaks, Stark slings his closest arm over Peter’s shoulders. With his other hand, he reaches in and grasps Peter’s, entangling their fingers.

“Oh, we’re there?” Peter jokes, before he can stop himself.

It takes Stark a minute to place it. He visibly processes the quote, and then rolls his eyes. “Yes, we’re there,” he says. “We were always there. I’m just a dick who can’t admit when I’m being physically affectionate.”

“Oh. That… makes sense, actually,” Peter says, mulling back on that backseat exchange. Really, who goes to open a door like that?  

“Anyway,” Stark redirects, tapping twice against Peter’s arm in emphasis, “Re: that first topic. We’ll definitely deal with the logistics of the Thanos shitshow later. I’ll tell you everything. I should have brought it up to you earlier, I apologize.”

And before Peter can lodge a protest, Stark continues. “I’m wearing the crown, so I’m gonna keep going. My second point is that -- and keep in mind that I want you to really consider what I’m saying because a) I’m the adult-ier person in this room; and b) I’m wearing the crown of power. I… want you to start some therapy.” Purposefully, Stark pauses, as if expecting Peter to freak out and interrupt.

Which, Peter very nearly does. Actually, he does, a little bit; this tiny hitched noise escapes him, but he clamps his mouth shut around any words of protest, allowing his heavy silence to speak for itself.

“Good boy,” Stark murmurs, before he starts and clears his throat. “Uh, oops. Ignore that. I’m being inappropriate. Good job respecting the crown, though.”

Peter willfully forces down any depraved reaction, even if he feels that simple praise run through his veins like intoxicating, liquid fire. “Sure, sure,” he stammers out. “Keep going?” _Please, don’t linger._ If Stark lingers, Peter will linger, and they’ll just end up in a muddier mess.

Mercifully, Stark breezes past their minor mishap with barely a moment’s pause and a gracefulness which comes with decades’ worth of media attention. “So, therapy. I honestly think it’d be helpful, both to process the trauma of what happened, and to help you cope with your current situation in so-called healthy ways. At least, until we can find a way to send you back.” He pauses, licks his lips as he considers something -- and _no_ , Peter does not avidly track that small movement with hungry eyes, _not at all_. Coming to some conclusion, Stark visibly braces himself. “There’s something else Quill brought to my attention. I don’t know if you want to hear it now, or later. It’s about you.”

 _About me_? Peter chews his lip a the ominous feeling which accompanies those words. Stark could be referring to any number of things.

As if hearing the unspoken question that’s lingering in the air, Stark clarifies, “Something about the time you were all gone. Your choice -- we can table it, or talk about it now.”

 _Now_ , Peter almost says, because he’s accustomed to facing problems head-on without second thought. But he pauses. The back of his brain is still muddled with the traces of his averted panic attack, and he really needs to work on his impulsiveness and penchant for jumping the gun.

Starting now.

“We should probably table it,” he says, though it comes out with a questioning lilt -- one which Stark answers with a faint rumble of approval. “You can, uh, keep going with the next item.”

“Good choice, honestly. Smart choice.” Stark licks his lips. “This next one is, well, uncomfortable. Not that everything else wasn’t, but this is…”

 _About them_.

“I know,” Peter says. “It’s alright. Go ahead.”

Without preamble, Stark jumps into it. “I wasn’t very clear on this, but my Peter and I had to work through a _lot_ of shit to create a remotely functional relationship. But, we’re pretty damn great now, and we have a level of trust between us that I’ve rarely had with anyone. Which is why, him being over there with your Stark? Sure, I’m jealous as hell and curious as to what the fuck is going on over there, but I also know that whatever happens, he’s gonna come home to me. He’s going to love _me_. And believe me, it took a _long_ time for me to start believing that.

“And it’s the same, the other way around. So, what I’m trying to say is that we’re not _open_ , but we’ve discussed mitigating circumstances and extenuating factors. And this is one of them.”

“You predicted alternate universes and set rules for them?” Peter asks disbelievingly, and then falters at his interruption. “Oh, sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“S’fine,” Stark says, squeezing Peter’s hand once. “We watched the mirror Star Trek episode, and the conversation came up. We have serious conversations about anything and everything -- we’re demented. And this one time, we had to deal with an _actual_ dimensional rift shitshow, so we never doubted the possibility all that much. So, yes, there are rules.”

“Oh,” Peter says. “Okay. Uh. Is there a point to telling me this, though? Not that I don’t appreciate your openness.”

“Yes,” Stark says, and his tone takes on this _quality_ which makes Peter’s heart skip. It doesn't go unnoticed how Stark slides off the crown, then, and lightly drops it over the side of the armchair. “My point is that I’m an opportunist. And I know you are, too. So I’m hitting a ball into your court and letting you decide -- what do you want to do regarding our situation?”

“Situation,” Peter repeats, dumbfounded. “Situation?”

He knows what Stark means. How could he not? But he’s been through the emotional version of a summer tornado in the past day, and he doesn’t quite have the guts to assume the most empirical of things, now, without hearing it confirmed, first.

“Sexual chemistry,” Stark says, to-the-point in the exact way that Peter needs, even if those words course through his body like a violent surge of electricity. “I can lay out my hand for you, and the rest is for you to decide -- that is, if you want to hear my hand in the first place. Up to you.”

“Yes,” Peter says, before he can think about it. Which isn’t the smartest choice -- he’d done first, thought later just last night, and the results speak for themselves. He’s still reeling from the emotional hangover.

But he’s doing it again, apparently.

He just can’t learn, apparently.

His self-control is shot to shit around this Stark, apparently.

( _Hey_ , he had a smart choice earlier, he reasons, when he tabled the Quill thing. He’ll give himself some slack for making a dumb one, now.)

“Here is my hand,” Stark says, and his fingertips -- the ones from the arm draped around Peter -- drum once against the outside of Peter's arm, as if counting. “One: I love my Peter, and only my Peter.” Another drum. “Two: You -- I’m fond of you. You and my Peter are separate people and I can clearly differentiate. And I like you and your differences.” A third drum. “Three: I want to do unspeakable things to you. Because I’m a possessive bastard and a heathen. And it’s not because I’m imagining my own Peter -- I want to do these things to _you_. Peter Parker from another universe, who’s been untouched by Tony Stark as of yet.”

“You do?” Peter can’t keep the note of sheer surprise out of his tone, nor stop the way he shifts so that he’s facing Stark a bit more. And _oh_ , that brings them so close. Their noses are nearly brushing again, and more of Peter is pressed against Stark -- not only his side and shoulder, but also his knee over Stark’s lap, his chest against Stark’s side.

“Is that so hard to believe?” Stark asks.

Peter’s not sure how to answer that. He’s not sure what he even believes. Stark’s question stands; _is_ it hard to believe? He’d been sure that Stark had been attracted to him, in the sense that he’s a carbon copy of someone Stark is attracted to, and fucks on the regular. If not purely emotional bleed, then there’s _gotta_ be some unconscious conditioning aspect, right?

Stark looks at Peter, identifies the familiar face, and feels automatic and intrinsic appetites arise within him.

That would make sense.

But for him to look at Peter, see him as someone who is distinctively _not_ his lover, and want Peter specifically for his distinctions?

That is a _little_ more mind-boggling.

Luckily, Peter is saved from answering when Stark continues. “I have, and will always have bad impulse control. It comes with the eccentric genius territory. And the mental health issues territory. And not to mention, this entire situation is complicated, and I have a _thing_ for complicated.”

Well, Peter would be hard-pressed to doubt that. Still, he prods, because he’s curious and wants to hear it directly out of the older man’s mouth in intricate, unmistakable detail. “How so?”

Stark’s eyes practically bore into Peter’s -- his stare is unwavering and magnetic, and his eyes are full of truthful conviction. “It’s complicated because I know you, but I don’t. Makes sense?”

“Kind of?”

“Let’s put it this way, and excuse my crudeness: I’ve already fucked you. You are someone my Peter _has been_ \-- before I, well, _laid my claim_. So, I’ve fucked you, over and over -- fucked all these different versions of you as you changed and grew from said fucking and the stress of being with _me_. Because I’m an intense, insane person; we’ve established that, right? It’s what I’ve been told. I _definitely_ expedited my Peter’s growing process by making him deal with my disaster ass, but once upon a time, he was simply _cute_. A little lamb. Oh-so-innocent, like freshly fallen snow. He was _you_.”

 _Well_ , Peter thinks. He gulps down a hysterical giggle. _Of all the ways to phrase my virgin status._

“So, _yes_ , you’re familiar to me. Nostalgic, almost. It’s like listening to a song from a decade ago.”

“So… I’m a _throwback_.” Peter supplies, unsure if he wants to laugh or balk. Both, quite possibly. “Like, if you hear that really old song by _50 Cent_ on the radio or something…”

It seems the meaning catches up with Stark, as well, because he offers a sheepish shrug. “...I mean that in the best possible way? Besides, _50 Cent_ is a little out of my age range.”

Peter snorts.

Stark continues. “I look at you, and I _like_ it. Too much. You’re just similar enough to the Peter I seduced that I want to do it again, but different enough that I’m also so fucking curious. Double whammy.”  

Well, when he puts it like _that…_

Peter’s quite aware of the haze of arousal which invades his bloodstream at those words, and he knows it’s a dangerous position to take, yet again.

But, he sits and waits for Stark to continue.

What was that about self-control again?

He may as well have completely forgotten what those words even mean.

“It’s insanely hard not to just throw you down and have my way with you, because you’re innocent as fuck and I’ve taken you this innocent before, and it. Was. Fucking. _Incredible_. You - I said the snow thing, before? I want to drive my car through it until it’s nothing but muddy slush.”

 _Then get your keys_ , a sultry voice in the back of Peter’s head chimes. _Run me down_.

He clears his throat and looks to the side. Twiddles his thumbs. Takes a clearing breath. “I’m not… against the idea,” he confesses, quiet.

Stark pauses. His body tenses. A breath passes, and then he says, voice low and fervent, “Tell me you don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“I’d eat you right up.”

“I’d let you.”

Peter looks at Stark -- looks into a wolfish gaze, and feels his skin prickle. So much for a steady talk. They really are fire and gasoline. Base and acid. Kindling and a spark.

“We should go to bed,” Peter finally murmurs. “It’s -- I want to -- but it’s soon. We should take a breather just for tonight, no?”

“I concur,” Stark says, even though Peter can sense the itch under the older man’s skin. “Let’s get some rest.”

They both rise in a clumsy untangling of limbs, and Stark strokes his hand along the center of Peter’s back. “You good to get some sleep?” he asks. “I know you only woke up recently.”

“I’ll try,” Peter says.

There’s another breath of silence. For a moment, Peter thinks that Stark will invite Peter to his bed. Does he want that? Or is the thought too intimidating? He’s not sure.

Doesn’t matter, because Stark simply squeezes his shoulder, offers a smile, and says, “Let’s grab some tea and I’ll tuck you in?”

“...sure.”

Turns out, drinking the spearmint tea Stark hands him, having the man’s steady hands spread the comforter out over him, is all Peter needs for his eyes to grow heavy and slip shut.

In that drunken, fluffy space between sleep and wake, Peter slurs, “You’re a lot more open about your thoughts and feelings.” _A lot more open than Mr. Stark._

“I learned to be,” Stark may or may not admit; Peter’s already fading out. He can’t be positive.

He dreams -- not of scorching touches and passion and dirty, whispered words. Not of torrid love affairs.

Not of death, either.

Tonight, he dreams of the effervescent brush of fingers to his cheek, the clear breeze of a morning spent in the embrace of someone he loves, the gentle coaxing of a soothing voice. Strong arms cradle him, rocks up, back and forth, back and forth. He stumbles along the bank of a brook, in a field of grass, and the the scent of dew is in the air, and the sun is rising, and those arms feel like home around him; held tightly in a warm embrace which blocks out the faint, fresh chill of the morning, Peter laughs.

But dreams are evanescent, and Peter wakes.

Under the filtering of sunlight through his window, Peter reaches out for those tendrils of peace, only to have them slip out of his fingers like wisps of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, everyone's supportive words and patience meant so much! Thank you so much and I'd love to hear what you think! 
> 
> \---
> 
> You can find me as [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Feel free to come by and say hi! 💖💕


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